Sanctuary
by Magess
Summary: Starts where 3B stops, with Kate attacking Derek in the loft. She kidnaps him to Mexico, and Stiles, Scott, and Lydia rush to find him before Kate can inflict too much damage. She inflicts enough, and Derek retreats into his mind to escape the horrors of his situation. The Derek they find is not the one that left Beacon Hills.
1. Chapter 1

Derek stared up at her glistening white fangs, barely breathing.

The heat of pain in his chest dissipated, snowed under by chill, numb terror. _Real. Real..._

He wanted to run, _needed _to run, but his body remained frozen in place as his insides curled and blackened.

Kate smirked as she pulled her transformation back, purple-black skin fading like a healing bruise, and stood straighter. Behind her, one of Severo's men groaned and moved, not quite as incapacitated as she'd thought. Kate whipped toward the sound of a cocking gun in the cloaking smoke, and in that second, the spell shattered.

Derek lurched to one side and scrambled to his feet, wobbling as he darted for a doorway to the other side of the loft. His hand shook as he dug out his phone and held down the speed dial.

He couldn't—

_Pant._

Breathe.

_Pant._

His chest burned with the poison of wolfsbane, and his bloody fingers slipped on the screen.

"Hey, Derek." Stiles's voice.

He hunched to stay in the smoke layer. _"Loftgettotheloft,"_ he gasped out in a rush and then tossed the phone into a corner, so Stiles's reply would come from someplace he wasn't.

Two shots cracked the air of the living room.

Derek ducked on instinct and kept running as he pressed one hand over the hole in his chest, blood seeping around his fingers. Shaking, he barreled into the bathroom, turned on the shower and faucet, and rushed back out, bouncing a shoulder off the door jamb.

The sound of his own heart in his ears drowned out everything, and he was sure _she_ could hear it, too. That and his terrified breathing. But he couldn't—couldn't stop it, control it. _Runrunrun._

He had to get back to the living room. Had to buy time. He ducked next to the weight machine and strained to hear the sound of her footsteps over his wheezing lungs.

Clack.

Clack.

Slow and deliberate.

The fear in Derek's gut tightened. She was taking her time.

He pressed his eyes shut and swallowed down a swell of bile. Cold sweat broke out across his skin.

He knew this place. That was his advantage.

Derek turned and peered through the bars of the machine as Kate stepped into the room, smoke swirling around her legs and hips, her gun toward the floor as she scanned the loft's interior. He tensed and then sprang for the partial wall, leaping through the hole.

Two more gunshots rang out, scattering brick dust on his back as he landed and swerved to the kitchen. Another faucet. More white noise.

He crouched at the edge of the kitchen counter with a view of the cloudy living room and window, breathing in small, painful gasps. The hand pressed to his chest shook, and icy spiders danced along his spine.

In the other room, Kate laughed, a full and throaty sound he didn't want to remember. "If you wanted to play, Derek, you could have just said so."

Her voice cut through his flesh, sharpened itself on tender nerves.

He shook and pressed himself closer to the counter.

"You know I like to play," Kate called. Her heels clacked closer.

For a second, he froze again. Too much and too many memories. Panic boiled hot in his throat.

Derek forced himself to look out into the shrouded room, and his eyes landed on the dark shapes of the hunters, sprawled across his floor. Well-armed hunters.

He pressed the wound in his chest hard and focused on the pain. Then he ran for the closest body, ducking to keep under the smoke line. With one hand, he searched the man's belt, then had to use two to pull a smoke bomb free. He ripped the pin and pitched the bomb back through the partial wall. Another. He needed another. He scrambled toward Severo and found what he needed. Derek pulled the pin and dropped it at his own feet. He gave the cloud a second to rise, then hurried to the stereo on his bedside table and cranked it, blasting All That Remains.

He winced at the deafening chords and hoped it would be enough.

Derek huddled by the wall that would take him back toward the bathroom and exercise space and waited, straining to listen. His pulse beat against his skin, and the sweat of fear rolled down his back. Running water and pounding music flooded his senses, along with the stench of smoke and something . . . different, repulsive. Her. It had to be her.

Why did it have to be her . . .

The quality of the white noise changed, and Derek turned on instinct to peer into the white wall of smoke toward the bathroom.

"It's cute, the water thing," Kate said, her voice materializing out of the cloud, giving away her location.

Derek slid around the wall and edged into the room. If he could circle around, he could make it to one of the storage closets. The thrumming baseline of the music masked Kate's heartbeat and the sound of her boots. Unless she spoke, he couldn't know where she was, except maybe by the intensity of her new scent.

His muscles shook with the knowledge of her presence, and he swallowed hard. He should make a break for it. He pictured the room and its contents, mapped out a route, and then hurtled himself into the smoke.

She appeared out of nowhere, already in rotation for a kick that landed square on his jaw. Derek stumbled back, a red-black smattering of color blinding him. He bled from a cut on his cheek from her heel and blinked to clear his head.

Kate hit him again, a punch to the abdomen that knocked the wind out of him and made his knees go weak. As he fell, he grabbed at her with both hands. They fought for a second like children, twisting and slapping. He got a grip on her belt and threw his weight against it.

He flung her to the ground, but she landed with a cat's grace, smiling. Derek heaved a painful breath and then ducked behind his arms as Kate pounced. She hit hard and broke through the barrier, slamming him down. Kate shoved her forearm against his throat and pinned him to the floor.

He shoved his blood-soaked hand in her face and reached for her belt again, this time closing his hand over a small metal device. A flash bomb. He snagged it, then squirmed to get one leg in close enough to kick her off. The best he got was the leverage to roll.

Desperate, Derek exploded all his strength into a single shove, flipping them. He wrenched free and threw the bomb at the ground, covering his eyes with the crook of his arm.

Kate screamed in agony.

He ran.

He slammed into the door with both hands and struggled with the handle, slick fingers trembling and sliding on the knob. Derek wheezed a curse and finally it opened. He threw himself inside and turned the lock, then slid to the floor, pressing his back against the door as he gasped.

The bomb had bought him time for help to come, while Kate staggered around blindly.

Minutes stretched, measured by his rapid heart and the beat of the music thumping through the wall.

Panic rocketed through him when the last of the white noise beyond the door finally vanished. The loft went silent, and he was painfully aware of his own racing pulse, while Kate's thumped out calm and steady. His mouth went dry, and he stared around at the contents of the small space for anything to barricade himself against her. There were only cases of liquor from Danny's party, but that had to be better than nothing.

Derek lurched forward, wincing at the spreading pain in his chest, and started shoving boxes in front of the door. Futile and childish, but each one still felt like putting space between them. He paused at the distant sound of his cell phone ringing and then clumsily shoved another box in place.

"Dude, he's not picking up," Scott said, casting a concerned glance at Stiles from the passenger seat. "Are you sure—"

"Yes, Scott. I'm sure. Very very sure." He stepped on the gas harder. "He sounded, like, hurt. I dunno. Afraid. Like he couldn't catch his breath. When have you _ever_ heard Derek like that?" Stiles scowled, pressing his lips together, and threw the Jeep into a sharp left, squealing into the parking lot of Derek's building.

"I don't—"

"Exactly."

They jerked to a halt. Stiles burst from the driver's side like his seat was on fire, and his momentum carried him halfway to the door before he stopped to look for Scott.

Scott stood next to the Jeep, his face wrinkled in disgust.

"What?" Stiles called. "Scott, your face, what is it?"

Scott took a deep breath, his brows furrowing further. "I—I don't know. Something smells weird. Different."

Stiles's heart sped up. "Different is bad. Different is definitely bad. Come on!"

He jogged for the door, flexing his empty hands and wishing that he'd bought another bat.

Derek pressed his back against the boxes and fought the urge to hug his knees to his chest.

"Derek. . . . Sweetie," Kate called with that mocking lilt.

His heart hammered.

"Don't I get a hello? How've you been?" She chuckled, and it crystalized on his bones. "Aren't you even a little curious?"

He clamped his hands over his ears and tried not to listen. Dead. She was supposed to be dead. But her words found him anyway, sliding in where they did not belong.

"I've been _dying_ to know what you'd think. The irony is, well, precious."

_Stop_, he thought, and got no farther than that.

Stiles threw open the door to the loft and stared. A cloud of white smoke billowed out and washed into the hallway. Scott put a hand on his shoulder and shifted as he made his way inside first, clearly having changed his mind about how serious a situation this might turn out to be.

"Stay behind me," Scott whispered over his shoulder, flashing his red eyes.

Stiles stared at him, barely able to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

Scott took the stairs slowly, pausing when the smoke cleared enough to show them a body on the floor.

"Stiles."

"I see."

Scott cocked his head, listening, and then pointed two fingers toward the ground nearby, one further into the room, and one off to the right. Signs of life, Stiles realized. Heartbeats. Scott raised a hand in front of Stiles's chest, partially shielding him, and then called into the smoke.

"Derek?"

They both blinked into the swirl of white, poised to react.

Footsteps moved in their direction with the heavy click of heels. Stiles threw Scott a sharp look of confusion, but Scott didn't turn to see it. What woman would attack—

His mind flashed to Jennifer, who Scott said had been missing when they went back to the distillery.

_God. Shit._

She emerged from the cover of smoke among the fallen hunters. But blonde and—

"What the fuck," Scott said.

Stiles blinked, and the bottom of his stomach dropped. "Kate _Argent_? Are you kidding me? Does _no one _stay dead in this town!"

"Scott, Sidekick." Kate smiled at them, a cold flash of teeth.

"S-sidekick?" Stiles shoved Scott's hand out of the way, but Scott grabbed him by the arm before he could charge forward. "What did you just call me?"

"Stiles," Scott hissed at him and jerked him closer to get his attention. "Get Derek." Scott released his arm and nodded off to the right, the last heartbeat he'd indicated. "I can handle this."

Kate laughed, and they both turned to look at her.

"Are you sure?" she said, that cold smile twisting her lips again.

And then . . .

_Oh, Christ, shit fuck_.

She turned blue and flashed green eyes.

Stiles's jaw dropped. Flat-out awestruck, dropped. A werething? She was a _werething_? How in the hell did Kate Argent become a—

Peter.

God damned Peter Hale couldn't _not _turn people into monsters, apparently.

"Stiles, go!" Scott said, and shoved him.

They went down the last few steps together, and Stiles skirted around the kitchen and into the far rooms. Behind him, he heard Scott roar and Kate reply with an answering animal sound.

He hurried, tracing one hand along the wall. Problem was there were like a dozen random storage closets in this part of the loft, and he had no idea where to start. The first two opened on nothing but empty space. The third didn't budge, and he bounced off after having thrown his weight against it.

"Derek?" Stiles called, his voice high with worry. "Derek, are you in there?" He pounded his fist on the door. "Derek, come on, open up!"

Something behind the door shifted and clattered, and Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet waiting for the lock to open. _C'mon, c'mon, c'mon_. He glanced over his shoulder at a pained grunt that could only have been Scott and then back at the door.

"Seriously, man, just—"

The lock slid open, and Stiles burst in, immediately stumbling to a halt.

"Oh . . . god."

Derek stood clutching a hand to his chest, his other arm propped against the wall. It was the only thing keeping him standing.

"You're—she _shot_ you?"

Derek lifted his ashen face. "I noticed," he said, his voice trembling. Blood gathered on his lips as he gasped for air. His whole body quaked, threatening to fall.

A gunshot thundered from the living room.

Stiles turned to run back to check, but Derek made a strangled sound, a desperate whimper. He spun to find Derek reaching for him with wide-eyed fear. Something shot down Stiles's spine, hot and fierce. And he understood that there was more going on here than a bullet wound, even if he didn't know what. Stiles slipped himself under one of Derek's arms and pulled him into his side, taking as much weight as he could.

"It's okay. I got you, you're gonna be okay," he said, chattering to fill the void.

They made it to the doorway back into the living room when Scott emerged from the settling smoke.

"Hey!" He jogged over.

Derek's grip on Stiles tightened, and Stiles glanced at him. His blank expression hadn't changed, and he shuddered. Stiles frowned but squeezed his fingers on Derek's waist in response.

He looked back at Scott. "Kate?"

"Gone. She—I dunno. It was like she wanted to test her strength but didn't really want to fight. I think she missed shooting me on purpose." Scott shook his head, glancing around at the smoke settling around their ankles and the hunters still sprawled on the floor. "I don't get what she was after."

Derek shuddered harder and stared mutely at the ground. A sick warmth gathered in Stiles's gut as he looked at him.

"Pretty sure I know," he muttered.

Derek ever so slightly turned in his direction and wheezed.

Scott frowned at the both of them and then seemed to realize that he should be helping. "Oh, here, let me—"

Stiles winced as Derek's fingernails dug into his arm. He shot him a sharp look of annoyance but started forward before Scott could grab Derek's other arm.

"Naw, it's cool. I got it. You need to call my dad." Stiles lifted his chin in the direction of the hunters. "I mean, at least one of them's dead, right?"

Rebuffed, Scott blinked in confusion then turned to the bodies. "I—yeah . . . Okay." He cast them troubled glances as they made their way out of the loft and down the long elevator ride to the car.

By the time they made it to the Jeep, Scott had relayed most of what they knew, which was largely Resurrected Argent, a hunter named Severo (according to Derek), and at least one dead.

"Your dad says they'll be here in five minutes," Scott announced as he hung up.

"Great. Let's be gone in two."

Derek . . . wasn't quite as weak as he looked, Stiles realized. He managed to pull himself up into the Jeep without too much help, but let his hand rest briefly over Stiles's own where he held his arm to make sure he didn't fall. It was a small gesture, easily chalked up to weariness, but so unlike Derek it set off clanging bells of warning. Stiles looked at Scott, who lifted his eyebrows in response, then back at Derek in the back seat, who huddled in on himself. It made him look small and much younger. Very alone. Worry pulsed in Stiles's chest.

He dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Scott. "You drive."

Scott took the keys, his eyes darting from Stiles to Derek and back. "Am I . . . missing something? Because you don't normally—"

"When I know, you'll know." Stiles clapped him on the shoulder and hurried around to the other side of the car to get in.

There was a reason Stiles didn't normally let Scott drive. He recalled it as Scott took a sharp turn, throwing Stiles into the door. Derek slid into him, grimacing, and shifted a little back over when he could. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it felt like Derek was leaning toward him. Not hovering, exactly. But listing closer, so their shoulders bumped even when Scott took a turn at normal speed, like he was trying to share heat.

They pulled into the back of the Animal Clinic, and Scott rushed ahead to warn Deaton what was coming while Stiles made sure Derek didn't collapse on the way inside. He looked paler than before, his eyes bruised and hollow.

Deaton met them in an exam room as Stiles unslung Derek's arm from around his neck and let him lean against a metal table. Stiles watched Deaton pull on a pair gloves, impatience spiking in his chest.

"So, should I be doing something, or . . . ?" He motioned toward Derek.

Deaton glanced at him. "Take his shirt off."

"Take his—" Stiles blinked, then peered at Derek. Sweat shone on his pale face, and every few seconds he sucked in a shallow breath. Stiles flexed his fingers nervously. Take off Derek's shirt. Sure. Fine. No problem.

He was already all up in Derek's space, so why not? He reached out and carefully slid his fingers under the hem of the shirt. Should he worry about touching? Scott wouldn't care about touching. Derek . . . didn't seem to mind it in a generalized way? But maybe a shirt-taking-off-way would be different. Maybe—

"Today, Stiles," Deaton cut in on his thoughts, and Stiles jerked back into focus.

His fingers brushed Derek's sides as pulled the shirt up, and he fumbled a little to get it over his head and down his arms. The thing was ruined, that was for sure. Punctured and soaked with blood. Stiles held it at arm's length and gave Deaton a questioning look. The doc pointed to a Biohazard bin against the wall, and Stiles moved to drop the shirt in.

When he returned, he sucked in a breath as the extent of the wound became clear. Derek had a black gash in his sternum smeared with dark red. Black lines spidered out across his chest, and black blood ran down his stomach, soaking into his jeans.

"Oh, God, that does not look good," Stiles said and shot Scott a worried look.

"Wolfsbane poisoning," Deaton supplied as he came closer. He circled around and peered at Derek's back. "No exit wound, either," he said, sounding grim.

Scott shifted from one foot to another. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Deaton said as he came back around and picked up a tray of implements from the side table, "that whatever she shot him with is still in there." He set the tray on a rolling cart. "Scott, we're gonna need an x-ray. Can—"

"I'll get the cassette," Scott replied quickly. He disappeared into another room and came back with a flat, white pad.

Deaton bobbed around until he could catch Derek's unfocused gaze. "I'm gonna need you to lie down, okay?"

Derek frowned slightly, but didn't react as though he had heard. He coughed, tingeing his lips black.

Stiles looked at Deaton, unsure, then stepped closer. Scott placed the panel on the table, and Stiles pressed on Derek's shoulder urging him to lie back.

"C'mon. Little hop. You can do it."

Derek lifted his head long enough to give him a glare, then hopped up a couple of inches onto the table. After a second he laid back, letting their hands guide him, making a face when his bare skin touched the cold metal. Stiles and Deaton exchanged tight grins.

Scott set a laptop on the counter and ran a cord to the panel. He moved swift and sure, wheeling the x-ray machine over from the corner and setting the beam over Derek's chest.

"Okay. Ready," Scott said. He tugged at Stiles's shirt. "We gotta go."

Stiles frowned at him. "What?"

Scott flung his hand toward his boss's retreating back. "Safety precaution. No one can be in here when we take x-ray."

"No one—Scott you're a werewolf."

Scott's face fell into a confused frown. "And you're not, so—" Whatever else he said, Stiles didn't precisely hear.

He looked at Derek, exposed and dying on a metal sheet, and realized that Derek was watching him back and trying to school his expression, but his eyes gave him away. When their gazes locked, Stiles felt it in his spine. A thin thread tugged in his chest, and he realized what was written in the wide dark of those eyes. Vulnerability.

"I'm not leaving," Stiles said quietly. He flicked his gazed to Scott and shrugged off his hand.

"Stiles."

"Seriously, Scott, it's one x-ray. It's not gonna kill me. Now just take the photo before he dies!" He swung a hand in Derek's direction.

Scott put on his appalled face, but Stiles just crossed his arms and turned toward the exam table like he'd be able to see the x-ray happen. Scott sighed audibly and left him there. A few seconds later, Stiles heard the ray gun click and watched as the laptop screen darkened and revealed white ribs.

He met Derek's eyes again and nodded once, not even sure what he meant. He got a small nod in reply, though, and that seemed like something.

Scott and Dr. Deaton hurried back into the room with practiced synchronicity. Scott retrieved the cassette from beneath Derek, rolling him as gently as he could and wincing when Derek groaned. Deaton went straight to the laptop, zooming the image in.

"Looks like there are three fragments." He motioned for Scott and Stiles to come closer and pointed. "They're fairly large, so they should be easy to find." He looked at Scott. "Get me 18ml Xylacaine."

Stiles stepped back from the laptop to give them room to work and ended up at the top of the table, looming over Derek's head. "Xylacaine. What's that? An anesthetic?"

Deaton touched lightly around the wound in Derek's chest. Derek's face twisted, and he sucked in a thick, rattling breath that bottomed out in a cough. His whole body spasmed with it, and he lurched onto his side as he vomited up black blood.

"Jesus, again?" Stiles said, jumping a little to make sure he was out of the way.

Derek gasped like a drowning man and flopped back onto the table. He arched with the effort to draw air, a look of panic in his eyes, and Stiles felt his heart start pounding.

On instinct, he put his hands on Derek's shoulders. "It's okay. All right? They're gonna get it out." He gave Deaton a querulous look, wondering if he was lying, but all he got back was lips pressed thin and a determined expression.

Derek's panicked gasps lessened, and as Scott brought the Xylacaine needle over, Stiles let go and turned away.

"Okay. Good." Deaton turned on his most soothing tone. "Scott, I'm going to need you to keep the wound clear."

"Right."

"Forceps."

In all, it was over pretty quickly. Stiles wondered if being a nurse was the McCall family calling. After the needle part was over, he'd turned back and watched student and teacher moving like clockwork. Impotence burned in his throat, and he started pacing for lack of anything else to do. Eventually, Deaton called his name without looking up from the surgery.

"There's a jar on the counter with wolfsbane. It's the—"

"Yeah, I know what it looks like," Stiles said as he darted over and rifled through the glass bottles.

"Good. Get half of it out and burn it."

He remembered this from last time. The last time Kate shot Derek. The last time wolfsbane almost killed him. God, their lives sucked.

Stiles poured the flower petals onto the other exam table and then stopped dead, the bottle still in his hand.

"Burn them." He whipped around to look at Deaton. "Burn them how? With what?"

Derek's voice creaked out of him. "Scott," he said, then moved his fingers near his left pocket.

Scott blinked for a second before reaching in and fishing out a lighter. He tossed it to Stiles, and Stiles reduced the wolfsbane to ash.

"Okay! Ready!"

"Almost . . ." Deaton leaned in closer, squeezing the forceps, and slowly pulling up.

Something small plinked into the pan on the cart.

"There. Stiles, the ash."

He scooped the ashes into his palm and cupped the other hand over top. Deaton stepped aside to make room and motioned with his blood-covered hands toward the wound. Stiles felt his stomach go sour just looking at it, and his knees went loose.

"Just put the ashes in?" he asked, his voice a little shaky.

"Quickly."

Derek's eyes were barely open, and if he was breathing, it was so shallow Stiles couldn't see the movement of his chest. His hands trembled as he opened them, a small dusting of ashes falling right into the ravaged flesh.

Derek all but screamed.

They jumped back from the table as he started to thrash. He arched and twisted, mouth open in silent agony. One fist beat down on the table so hard it left a dent. He sucked a deep breath and wailed as the black spiderous lines erased themselves from his skin.

And then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

Derek sagged onto the table panting and shivering, though very much alive.

The room held its breath, waiting for him to declare the crisis averted. But all he could see in the bitter glare of the clinic's light was the winter beauty of her face, lips curved in the slightest of deadly smiles. Each small exhale took his animus with it, leaving him pinned to the tabletop at the mercy of memory.

"Derek?" Scott.

"Give him a minute." Deaton.

He gathered the strength to sit up enough to find three faces staring at him. He looked from Scott to Deaton to Stiles. Stiles gave him an assessing onceover, his arms crossed and long fingers tapping out secret messages against his bicep. Derek sat up further and touched his chest where the hole had been, blandly digesting the knowledge that he hadn't died.

"Could you guys give us minute?" Stiles said abruptly, turning to the others.

Deaton cocked an eyebrow at him and nodded once. "Well, I do have some _paying_ customers," he said, clapping Scott on the shoulder, "that I'm sure I could use some help with."

Scott looked like he was going to argue, but at a gaze that bordered on a glare from his boss, he followed Deaton toward the other room without comment.

"And no wolf ears!" Stiles called after him, pointing accusingly.

Scott rolled his eyes and threw up his hands as he left, busted before he'd even started.

The door closed behind them with a click.

Then silence.

When Stiles turned back, his expression had changed, softened. Derek swung his legs over the side of the table and sat, staring at the ground, keenly aware of the cold air against his thin skin and hard metal beneath his palms. He stayed as still as possible, avoiding the sharp edges of the world.

Stiles watched him for a second, then perked and went to the sink. He came back with a damp cloth and handed it over, motioning toward the drying black blood. Derek gazed down at himself and cleaned off the mess as best he could. He could feel himself being watched and glanced up.

After a second, Stiles seemed to realize he was staring. His eyes flashed in sudden embarrassment, and he spun around in a small circle casting about the room. He looked down at himself and then took off the flannel he was wearing.

"I've had to go up a size, but it still might be a little too small . . ." He said, shrugging in apology.

Derek gazed at him, at the offering. It probably _was_ too small. He took it from him anyway, irrationally grateful and hyperaware of the softness of the fabric and familiar scents. He slipped it on and regained the ability to breathe.

He didn't try to button it.

Stiles moved quietly to his side and leaned against the exam table. He looked down at the floor, then his hands, weighing something.

"Do you wanna tell me about it?" he asked gently, lifting his eyes only briefly to meet Derek's.

Derek swallowed hard as heat crept up his throat, cutting off his air. Sparks and smoke stung at the backs of his eyes, and he held himself very still, so still maybe Stiles would lose sight of him. But it thundered in him, too, the need and want of words like gathered magma.

"What?" he asked, to release some of the pressure.

Stiles looked at him, unsure. "I found you in a closet. Shaking." He looked down at his clasped hands. At a whisper he added, "You haven't really stopped."

Distress burrowed deep on Derek's face as he shifted uncomfortably. He, too, brought his hands to his lap, and he scored his nail down his fate line, pressing until it sparked with pain. He didn't want to do this. _Couldn't _do this. Pressed his nail in harder, and his throat ached.

"Is it her?" Stiles asked softly. "Kate?"

He stopped. Stopped drawing pain across his skin. Stopped breathing. The heat and pressure inside built behind his eyes, through his chest.

Cracked open in his throat with a startled sob.

Did he make a sound? He hadn't meant to make a sound. But the world blurred with tears, and he hadn't meant to do that either.

"Sorry. I-I can't"—he swiped at his eyes—"stop it. I can't . . ." Breathe. He gasped. Derek curled in on himself, tensing every muscle to try to reel it all in. _Stop, stop, stop._

Stiles touched his arm, and he flinched at first, lifted his head to stare at him, too caught between embarrassment and sorrow to know what to say or how to make it go away. Stiles gazed back at him, looking on the edge of tears himself, his heart racing, and tugged on his arm ever so slightly. Just to let him know. It would be okay, this time, to fall.

He teetered on the precipice, gripping the table edge with both hands.

And only spoke because the scorching on his soul was too much.

"I was sixteen. It—it was about a year . . . after Paige died." His lower lip trembled, and he bit it for a second to stop it and gather some control. "I still . . . I killed her," he said, eyes locked somewhere distant.

"You gave her mercy," Stiles added, his voice low.

Derek snorted out a short, derisive breath, shaking his head. "I still . . . _felt_—" He gripped one hand near his stomach, losing the words to a flood of emotion.

"Like a monster?" Stiles whispered.

Derek turned to look him in the eye and nodded, unable to say it himself. His face reddened, and he stared hard at the floor.

"Kate knew what to say," he admitted, and brought his hands back to his lap, scraping a line on his palm. "Said I was sweet." Shame smeared across his face. "Gentle." His voice broke on the word, and he swallowed. "That I made her laugh . . . Things I needed to hear."

His scowl deepened, and he dug harder at his palm, concentrating on it until Stiles reached over and touched the back of his hand. He blinked out a tear that disappeared into his beard.

"I thought I was lucky," he said, hoarse, "because she always wanted sex, but . . ." He frowned at the floor. "It was fun, at first. Things I knew people did. Handcuffs. Slaps. She said if I wanted to make her happy, I'd do it. I'd do anything . . ." He took a shuddering breath and glanced at Stiles to gauge his reaction.

Stiles gazed back, all questions and flushed skin, but patient.

Derek studied the tiled floor and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I did what she wanted. Slaps became fists. Whips . . . blades. She liked those."

"Derek . . ." Breathless with horror.

Bile rose in his throat as he thought about it, and humiliation burned across his face. He had to shut his eyes. "Sometimes, she wouldn't look at me, touch me, unless I"—his throat constricted on the words—"I wore the collar." The shame spilled over, and he hunched down, holding the back of his neck with both hands. He shook, losing against the hurt.

A hand settled onto his back, fingers rubbing gentle circles over his tattoo.

"I—" Stiles said, his voice strained, "I didn't know it was like that."

Derek uncurled a little, dropping his hands. He glanced over then let his gaze fall. "No one does," he said quietly.

Stiles's fingers stopped, making Derek look up at him. His face flickered with realization, tenderness, then thought. He met Derek's eyes.

"You can't fight her, can you," he said. It wasn't question.

Guilt etched itself on Derek's face and coiled deep in his gut. He hopped down, away from the burn of Stiles's hand on his back, and paced.

"No." Ghosts in a word. He stopped. "There's just . . . there's this . . ."

"Fear?" Stiles offered softly as he got up. "Like you're never gonna breathe again. Like you're gonna fly apart."

Derek glanced over his shoulder with a look of stunned wonder. He nodded and turned away.

"Fear," he agreed, and kept walking.

"Hey, it's okay," Stiles followed a few steps behind.

He paused but didn't look back. "No, I'm pretty sure it's not."

Stiles took a breath like he was going to reply, then sighed. "Yeah . . . I—I didn't mean . . ." He drew closer, but stopped when Derek didn't turn around. "Look . . . just wait here, okay? I need to talk to Scott."

Derek did turn to look at him, then, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Not tell him," Stiles added. "All right? Just talk to him."

Derek shrugged and glanced down at his borrowed flannel, running his fingers down the buttons. He didn't watch him go.

Stiles slipped into the interstitial space of the clinic and slowed, lingering in the sensation of his pulse pounding in his fingertips. He felt the shape of delicate truths form around his heart.

He housed a new secret now and wondered how much it had cost Derek to share it.

But it was okay. Stilinskis were good at keeping secrets. Stiles pressed the heel of his hand to the place in chest where the secret ached and breathed, feeling its edges.

He cast a look back toward the door, worry hardening into conviction, and went to look for Scott. He found him in the lobby, hunched over in a chair and staring at his clasped hands. Scott snapped his head up at Stiles entered.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well is he okay?" Scott asked, rising to his feet.

Stiles quirked an eyebrow, and he mouthed a few aborted words before settling on, "That's . . . a complicated question."

Scott's eyes widened. "Well is he alive?"

"What? Yes. Alive, yes."

Scott sagged in relief. "So, then what's the problem?"

Stiles flicked his tongue over his lower lip and worried it between his teeth before letting out a sigh and crossing his arms. "The problem . . . is that he can't fight her," he said.

Scott narrowed his eyes at him. "What do you mean _can't_. I mean, she's stronger and faster, yeah, but—"

"No, it's"—Stiles shook his head—"it's not that." He lowered his voice. "It's . . . psychological. He just—he _can't_ do it."

Scott gave him a look like they were doing physics, but after a second he started to nod. "Because he loved her," he said, voice hushed.

Stiles's head tilted on autopilot. _What? _But then . . . why not? Why not that? He forced himself to nod once. "Something," he said so it sounded like agreement. "Point is he's gonna need our help."

"Okay." Scott nodded. "Yeah. But . . . how?"

"Right now?" Stiles let his arms fall to his sides and glanced in the direction of the exam room. He drew a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. "Right now, I . . . think we take him to my house." He said each word carefully, and shot Scott a questioning look, wondering if they sounded right on his end. "My dad installed that whole security system thing, and we could get a detail put on the house."

Scott shrugged like that wasn't the worst plan. "If you want, I could stay? I mean, I should _probably_ stay."

"The superhearing, the superstrength. I'm gonna go with yes." Stiles slapped Scott's chest with the back of his hand. "Plus, you need my help in Econ."

Satisfied with Plan A, he turned and started back toward the exam room.

Scott's voice growled behind him. "I don't _need _your help in Econ."

They found Derek screwing the cap back on Deaton's bottle of wolfsbane and placing it carefully back in the tray. Stiles's plaid shirt stretched tight across his chest, and he'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbows with neat folds. Stiles made an amused sound, and Derek turned to look at him with an eyebrow raised in question.

"So I guess 'you're okay,' huh?" Stiles grinned at him, glancing up and down his plaid, jeans, boots combo.

Derek stared at him blankly for a second before twisting his face with a sarcastic look. Stiles's grin widened.

Scott stepped up next to him and leaned in toward Stiles's ear. "You said he was fine like a second ago."

Stiles turned slowly. "Are you ser—" He cut himself off when he saw that Scott was. "Your cultural education is appalling."

Scott frowned. "What?"

"It's a Monty Python sketch," Derek said with a sigh as he straightened.

"I don't—"

"Ap-pall-ing," Stiles repeated, adding emphasis. "How are we friends?"

Scott just rolled his eyes.

"No, seriously, I don't know if this is worse than the Star Wars thing, but it's definitely on the list." Stiles pulled out his phone and started typing.

"What are you doing?" Scott leaned over to peer at the screen, but Stiles nudged him away.

"Adding it to the list," he replied, as though that should have been obvious.

As he typed, a prickle touched his spine, and he peeked up to find Derek watching him, intent but unreadable. Right. Yes, Derek. Stiles hit save and shoved his phone back in his pocket.

"Okay! So . . . let's go," Stiles said and started off. He turned after a few steps. "Scott, keys?"

Scott dug into his pocket and tossed them over.

Derek turned in place, watching them but not moving. "Where?"

"My house." Stiles could actually see Derek's frown gathering like a slow storm and sagged in annoyance. "Listen, you can't go back to the loft, okay?"

Another eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Wh—" Stiles flung his arms to the sides. "All right, A) because it's now an _actual _crime scene, and B) it's like the least secure place on the planet. So. You're coming with us."

Derek's gaze cut to Scott.

"I don't think you should go back there," Scott said, worry touching his dark eyes.

Derek's lips pressed into a thin line, but he conceded.

Stiles let out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding and hurried out to the Jeep before anyone changed their minds.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek sat in the back, cautious of the slamming doors and irritated at his own flinching. The immediate danger had passed, and so too should such primal fears. Instead, they prowled through him, proof of his weakness. He scowled at himself and settled back into the darkness.

Derek could see Stiles glancing at him in the rearview mirror as the car started, but then he turned his attention toward Scott and asked about trig homework and their Econ take-home test.

The hum of the tires on the road filled the air. Eventually the boys stop talking, leaving only the drone, a sound so close to oblivion. His skin felt thicker the farther they drove; time and distance married as they were. A few times Derek checked the mirror, lingering, but no one looked back, so he gazed out at the passing cars instead.

BAH BAH BAH BUM BAH DA—the "Imperial March" suddenly burst into the silence, making them all jump, and Stiles shifted to pull out his phone.

"Hey, Dad. What—" Now Stiles looked back at him. "Yeah. Okay, hold on." He held the phone out. "My dad wants to talk to you."

Derek's eyebrows shot up, and he took the phone carefully, not letting their fingers touch.

"Sheriff?"

"Scott already told me some version of what happened. But since this is now a murder, in your house, I'm going to need to make a show of collecting an official statement."

Weariness gathered in Derek's gut. "You need me to come down to the station," he said.

"What?" Stiles barked, making Derek glance up sharply to find he was half-turning in his seat. The Jeep swerved, and Scott cursed as he shoved Stiles back down. "Gimme the phone!" Stiles shook a grabby hand over his shoulder.

Derek ignored him. "Sure, I—"

"Derek, give me the phone!" Stiles said louder.

The Sheriff sighed on his end of the line. "Give him the phone," he muttered.

Derek handed it back to Stiles, still careful of contact.

"Dad, seriously? He almost just died and now you wanna interrogate him?"

Though the voice was now fainter, Derek could hear Sheriff Stilinski reply that what he wanted and what he had to do were two different things.

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

Scott leaned closer to Stiles and whispered, "Maybe we should just get it over with."

Stiles knocked an elbow at Scott as he looked back in the mirror, an apology written in his eyes.

"Yes," he said to his father. "Okay, fine. We were headed home anyway. It'll be like ten minutes."

Stiles hung up the phone in obvious disgust, then searched in the mirror until their gazes locked under the light of a street lamp. A second of silent contact to say "I'm sorry," though he couldn't tell for what. A second for a jolt of connection to ripple through Derek's body, heating, chilling, until he had to look away.

Stiles smelled of fury by the time they reached the station. He slammed the car door and gnawed on his thumbnail as he stalked inside. After a moment's consideration, Derek let Scott go first.

"It's really fine," he said, pitching his words low for only Scott's ears.

Scott looked back over his shoulder, a kind expression on his face. "He'll get over it."

The sick feeling in Derek's gut twisted tighter. He wasn't supposed to be anyone's problem, anyone's burden.

The clerk at the front desk directed them back to the young, fresh-faced deputy, Parrish—the one who hadn't wanted to return Argent's "lightsaber." Parrish watched Stiles storm into his dad's office and slam the door before turning to look at them.

"Gentlemen." Parrish's eyes narrowed slightly when he turned them on Derek. "The Sheriff," he said, checking the office windows behind him, "might be a few minutes. Why don't you two take a seat."

Derek eyed the large window of the sheriff's office with unease as he sat. Not that he _expected_ it to blow up. Again. But a muscle in his neck twitched anyway.

Stiles's pulse beat rapidly on the other side of the wall.

"I thought there'd be more shouting," Scott whispered, leaning toward him.

Derek nodded and hunched over, staring down at his hands. "I thought there'd be more _talking_," he muttered back. He considered turning around for a look when the door to the office suddenly opened and Stiles slipped out, subdued and wearing the look Derek was trying not to take for pity. Then Stiles hooked his thumb back toward the door.

"Guess you better go in."

They traded places, and somewhere in the movement, Stiles brushed a hand down Derek's forearm in reassurance, leaving a trial of heat that Derek touched with his fingertips before closing the door. He frowned a little at himself and took a seat.

John narrowed his eyes. "Is that my son's shirt?"

Heat rushed to Derek's face as he looked down at himself. "Yeah, I— Mine got ruined," he said.

Sheriff Stilinski digested that with a grunt and leaned back in his chair.

"So, if I have this right. Three men broke into your apartment. Then Kate Argent, who we buried nine months ago, _also_ broke into your apartment, shot the intruders, shot you, and then . . . ran away when Scott and Stiles showed up to help."

Derek nodded along with his recap. "Pretty much."

"And these men . . . they're all hunters, like the Argents?"

Derek sighed. "Yes."

"And you know them because . . . ?"

He dropped his gaze to the bobble-head doll John kept on his desk. "Because they caught and tortured Peter and me a couple month ago," Derek supplied, his voice flat.

"Jesus . . ." The word slipped from John's lips heavy with horror, and he leaned forward with his arms on the desk. "Are you okay?"

Derek's eyes snapped up, and he blinked. "I, uh . . ." He shifted uncomfortably. "It was just electrocution and some beatings." He shrugged and scanned his eyes over the top of the desk. "Nothing that didn't heal." Nothing he wasn't used to.

The Sheriff's expression turned pained. He looked away, shaking his head, and sat back, taking the discomfiting weight of his compassion with him. "What did they want?" he asked.

Derek shook his head. "The she-wolf. Except the only she-wolf I know is Cora. And right before Kate showed up, I told them that."

"And?"

"And they had no idea who Cora was."

"So you have no idea what they're after."

Derek shook his head, again, at a loss. "I really don't."

John heaved a deep sigh, pushing around the papers on his desk. "So here's the situation as I see it. If you killed a man, you did it in self-defense. If you didn't, then a dead man ended up in your living room because of a third party shooter, who no one but you and two kids saw and no one can prove exists. One of these is going to sound a lot more plausible to the DA."

Derek swallowed as his stomach dropped. "Are you asking me if you can pin me for murder?" He should have been angrier at the thought, but the emotion wouldn't come.

"No," John replied softly. "I don't know . . . maybe."

"I don't own a gun," Derek said. "And you didn't find the murder weapon at the scene."

The Sheriff nodded. "I am aware of that."

"So even if I said I shot him in self-defense"—he shrugged helplessly—"how would you prove it?"

John rubbed at his forehead. "With a statement, no one might look too hard."

"I didn't kill him."

"I know that."

But he didn't know. Not really.

"So if you could just—"

The patience and weariness snapped in him like a dry twig. And _ah_, there it was. Anger and indignation licked from his core, down his arms, a boil exploding outward.

"I didn't kill him!" Derek shouted, finding himself suddenly on his feet jabbing a finger in John's direction. He panted with fury.

The Sheriff had jumped up with him and looked him steadily in the eye. "I _know_," he said again, calm as stone.

Derek let his hand slowly fall, conscious of the wild heartbeats on the other side of the glass.

John went on, "But if I don't write that in the report, then we're gonna have questions that I have no idea how to answer."

His hammering heart slowed as the anger bled out, and his look turned despairing.

"I'm sorry," the Sheriff told him, "but I don't know what else to do."

They both sank back into their chairs, Derek all the more weary from the adrenaline burst.

"Fine," he said, and scrubbed a hand over his beard. "Whatever you want."

John produced a statement for him to sign. Three men attacked him in his home. He fought with one and shot and killed him self-defense, using the assailant's own gun. They both lied in the name of justice.

Stiles must have been watching, because he opened the door as soon as Derek set the pen down, Scott crowding at his shoulder.

"Fabulous," he deadpanned at his father. "Can we go now?"

The Sheriff sighed. "Yeah, you can go." He waved a hand, shooing them away.

Derek looked at Stiles as he got up, concerned at the hard, sharp edge of him.

"Great. Derek's sleeping over, by the way," Stiles's tone could've cut glass. "So you might wanna have someone stationed outside the house." And then he ducked back out of the doorway before his father could reply.

"Wh— Stiles!" John hopped up and called after him anyway, then redirected his gaze. "Scott?"

Scott shrugged sheepishly. "It was the safest place we could think of?"

He turned the same look on Derek, but Derek could only shrug in reply. Weariness ate at his bones. And he had nothing left to invest in family squabbles.

"If it's a problem, I could . . ." he started to say, the words coming slowly, but John waved a hand at him, cutting him off.

"No . . . you can stay. You were attacked in your home. We'll call this protective custody," he said, and picked up his phone. "Parrish, tell Slater and Cordova I need someone watching my house overnight." He waved Derek and Scott from his office, and sat to hash out surveillance details.

"Anything?"

"_Stiles. _For the fifth time, I don't see anything."

"But—"

"Or smell anything. Or hear anything," Scott said, trying to keep his annoyance to a minimum. "If I do, I swear I'll tell you."

Stiles drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. They needed to be on guard. To be _careful_. "Okay, but you're looking with your alpha—"

Scott growled and turned to glare at him, flashing his red eyes.

Stiles flicked his fingers up in surrender without letting go of the wheel. "Fine, okay, I get it."

He checked on Derek in the rearview mirror as they passed under a streetlight. The orange glow swept across his face, giving Stiles a quick snapshot of the stoic expression that hadn't changed since they left the station. The silence settling over the car scratched at his nerves, and he chewed on his lower lip to keep from biting his fingernails.

Eventually, they hit a stop sign, and he pulled his phone out and tossed it to Scott.

"Order pizza."

Scott blinked down at the phone in his hands. He _did _have one of his own. "Oookay."

"The Dominos app. Has my dad's credit card," Stiles supplied, and he could feel a smirk pass onto Scott's face without having to see it.

"Does your dad know that?" Scott asked with a small smile.

Stiles shrugged. "Haven't had any complaints."

Scott shook his head while he started tapping out an order. "Toppings?"

"Everything meat," Stiles answered, then he glanced in the mirror again. "Derek?"

No reply. They were between streetlights, so he couldn't actually see.

Scott turned in his seat. "Do you want anything?"

"I'm thinking," Derek replied, his voice heavy.

Stiles smirked. "Dude, your options are, like, pizza. There's not much to think about."

Derek sighed as they passed under a light, and Stiles caught him rolling his eyes. "Vegetables."

Scott flopped back into place. "Like all of them?"

"Like I don't care which ones."

Stiles glanced over at Scott's face reflecting the glow from the phone. He wore _that_ smile, the guilty one.

"Oh my God, what?" Stiles asked.

Scott snapped his head up. "What?"

"That face. Scott, I know that face. What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

Derek made a sound in the back seat, like Stiles needed help identifying a Scott McCall untruth. He stuck out his hand.

"Give it."

Scott slapped the phone into his palm. "The order's on its way." He didn't even have the decency to hide his smugness.

"Did you seriously—"

"What?"

Stiles let the top of the second pizza box slide from fingers and stared down. "Is that actually every vegetable?"

Scott grinned innocently and took of piece of the meat bomb pie. "What? It's what he wanted."

Derek moved into the space beside Stiles. "That's not what I said."

Stiles's eyes narrowed. "Scott, how much did this cost?"

Scott lifted his shoulders in a shrug, an apologetic look settling in his eyes "I-I dunno. I didn't—"

Stiles sighed and turned to Derek. "Are you actually gonna—"

"It's fine."

The reply came too fast, but Derek softened it with a small twist of his lips. Unease quivered in Stiles's stomach anyway. Like he needed this to go right somehow, but wasn't sure why or what _right _even meant. He gave Scott a glare as he grabbed a plate and ate like it was his last chance.

Derek had to use a knife and fork.

The awkward silence settled again, and Stiles couldn't break it in the way the ache in his chest told him to. Derek had shared. _Really_ shared. And it knocked them out of balance, put him in debt in a way that only accepts payments in kind.

Distraction. Definitely needed a distraction. He looked over at Scott as an idea formed and then leaned back in his chair to work up a belch.

He let it go, making as much noise as he could, then sighed happily, patting his belly.

Scott gave him a disappointed look. "That's like a four."

Stiles tilted his chair back down. "Pff. What_ever. _Clearly better than a four."

Scott shook his head, doubtful. "Not better than a four." He passed Stiles his empty plate, and Stiles feigned annoyance as he took it and dropped everything off in the kitchen. He darted up to his room for his laptop and came back to that same heaviness in the air, again. Derek caught his eye and then looked down at his plate, poking at his food.

"You can ask," Derek said softly. "It's okay."

Stiles set his laptop on the table as he sat. "Ask what?"

Derek lifted only his eyes, meeting both their gazes briefly. "Whatever it is."

Scott gave Stiles a subtle shrug. Stiles tapped his finger against the closed lid of his laptop, watching the pad flatten as he applied pressure.

"Do you, uh . . . do you know what she is?" he asked, only meeting Derek's eyes after the question was out.

Derek shook his head and looked away. "No. Something . . . catlike, but otherwise no." He set his fork down, and Stiles felt guilt creep up his throat as he stared at it.

"Right. Well." The sensation hollowed him out. He opened his laptop. "Then I guess we start with that."

Derek quirked an eyebrow at him, and Scott leaned over a little.

"Stiles, I actually have homework."

"What? I mean, yeah, I'll do this, you do that." He gestured in Scott's direction, nodding until Scott looked convinced that he wasn't being a terrible friend.

After that, Stiles grew quiet, focusing himself on his laptop and occasionally sighing in frustration. Derek watched Scott struggle with Econ for a good half hour before rousing himself from his growing exhaustion enough to make himself useful.

"What are you working on?" he asked, plunking himself down in the seat across the table.

Scott glanced up from his work. "Demand graphs? I don't . . . I keep doing the wrong thing." He glowered down at his notebook.

Derek gestured for the book and notes and took a minute to look over the chapter, questions, and Scott's work. He pushed the textbook back.

"Do you get the difference between demand and quantity demanded?"

Scott stared back at him. "Uhm . . ."

"Okay." He held out his hand for a pencil and started drawing on a fresh page. Just a simple graph with a few points. "This is your demand curve. You check the price, it tells you how many people will want. The shape doesn't change as you change the price, you just hit a different point"—he moved the pencil from one dot to another—"on the graph. They use the phrase 'all other things being equal.'"

Scott nodded. "So what happens when all other things aren't equal?"

Derek drew arrows next to each dot pointing to the right. "The whole graph moves." He turned the page around and pushed it back toward Scott.

Scott looked down at it, slowly frowning as he thought it through. "But . . . won't things not be equal most of the time?"

Derek huffed, ready to concede the unjust complexities of the world, when he turned to the sound of a familiar car engine approaching. Scott perked too, and Stiles glanced between the both of them, keyed to their reactions.

"What?" Stiles asked, halfway to his feet.

"Your dad," Derek said, turning back around.

Relief flashed over Stiles's face.

A minute later, the Sheriff came in, a loud series of beeps from the security system announcing his presence. He keyed in a code and threw the deadbolt shut.

Derek watched as father and son looked at one another, something beyond his ken passing in the silence. The look moved to Scott, who lifted his chin with a small grin.

It did not touch on him at all, and he felt keenly how out of place he was in the rhythm of their home. John disappeared into the kitchen and came back a minute later with two beer bottles slung between his fingers. He held one out in Derek's direction, the corner of his mouth turning up a little. It drew a similar grin in reply, and Derek felt some tension he hadn't been aware of ease from his shoulders.

He popped the bottle cap off with a flick of claw.

"So," John said as he lowered himself into the seat at the head of the table, "Kate Argent's really alive, huh?" His gaze settled on Derek.

Derek nodded as he took a drink—an excuse not to reply right away. Scott filled the void with a "Yeah. Stiles and I both saw her too."

John frowned down at the bottle in his hands and shook his head lightly. "Then who'd we bury? I mean, wouldn't someone have noticed a missing corpse?"

"Different method of turning," Derek said, keeping his eyes on the table top. He shrugged. "There are a lot of legends. I've never known of someone turned by claws. But . . . I'd never heard of someone becoming a kanima, either." He rolled neck of the bottle between his fingers, leaving a trail of condensation from the base on the table.

The Sheriff heaved a sigh. "Is that what she is?"

"A kanima?" Stiles asked. "No. Definitely not. Not a kanima. Not a werewolf. Not a banshee."

"Not a kitsune, either," Scott added.

John leveled a gaze at his son. "So what does that leave?"

Stiles echoed his father's previous sigh. "Literally everything else." He shook his head and looked around the table. "I think we're gonna need Lydia to look through the bestiary, because Google is giving me bubkis." He slapped his laptop shut.

Derek smirked, dark humor bubbling in his chest. "I thought you could find anything on the Internet. In minutes."

Stiles shot him a scathing look. "You gave me 'blue' and 'catlike' to work with, okay? I even tried purple and black, just for kicks."

The Sheriff turned his attention in Derek's direction. "Any idea what she wants?"

He snorted, his mouth falling into a grim line. "Didn't really stop to talk about it." That was unfair. He frowned at himself and tried again. "No . . . beyond—" His throat closed against a rush of shame, and when he could speak it came out hoarse. "No."

John nodded at him like it was the answer he'd expected, even if he might have hoped for something different. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and down his face. "Well, not much more we can do tonight, then, right?"

They all nodded in vague agreement.

"Right." The Sheriff stood and finished the rest of his beer on the way to the kitchen. He looked at Stiles on his way back out. "Make up the couch for him?"

"Yeah."

The Sheriff's gaze lingered. "Where he'll be _staying_," he added pointedly.

Stiles's face flushed, and he flailed a little in embarrassment while Scott chuckled. Derek felt flames lap up his neck and cheeks, and he stayed perfectly still. Had he given something away? Looked too long? Panic raced down his spine, and he nearly jumped when John's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Get some rest," the Sheriff said, with the kind sort of patience that only parents seemed to have.

Derek forced himself to look up at him and nod, bewildered.

Stiles followed his father up the stairs and came back with blankets and a pillow. He tucked and arranged, fussed with the placement of the pillow until Scott laughed at him for being an idiot. Stiles shot him a withering glare.

"It's fine," Derek told him as he sat down.

Stiles twined his hands together in a nervous gesture. "So . . . you'll be okay? I mean, you'll let me know if you need anything?" His heart beat rapidly.

Derek's skin hurt watching him, and he forced a small grin onto his face. "Yeah."

Stiles bobbed his head, although he seemed glued in a place for a few seconds. After a moment of indecision, he started after Scott up the stairs, but then turned back and darted around the living room checking all the windows to be sure they were locked and the blinds were all the way closed. Stiles offered Derek a shy smile, as though he'd been caught, and hit the lights on his way up.

Derek lay in the dark for hours, staring at the ceiling and listening to the steady heartbeats above him and the night animals outside. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones and wouldn't let him rest. He couldn't get the image of her face out of his head. Or the terror.

The house was three times the size in the dark. The corners all too far away and objects unfamiliar. He pulled the blanket up and inhaled deeply, but it only smelled of detergent and cotton—not a blanket either Stilinski used themselves. The pillow was Stiles's, though. Smelled like him and Pert shampoo. Derek shifted onto his side so he could bury his face in it a little, draw the familiarity into himself and soothe the edginess that had him jumping at every small rustling sound outside.

It worked a little. Not well enough to let him sleep.

Someone upstairs moved, and Derek flopped onto his back to track their movements down the hall, then coming down the stairs. They were light, careful steps.

He sat up, and Stiles gasped out a curse.

"Dude, you scared me," Stiles whispered. He came down the rest of the flight not quite so cautiously.

"Sorry."

Stiles moved to the back of the couch and gazed down at him. "I was . . ." He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "I was just coming to check."

Derek lifted an eyebrow at him. "If I was still here?"

Stiles averted his eyes. "If you were okay," he said quietly.

It punched all the air from Derek's lungs. He laid back down to give himself time to formulate a reply. "Can't sleep," he admitted, shrugging.

Stiles tapped his fingers against his arm as he looked down at him, then around the quiet house. He stopped as he looked somewhere up the stairs and sighed, not moving his eyes off whatever was beyond the walls. "I don't think you should be alone." Then he glanced at Derek. "Come on."

Derek sat up and stared at his retreating back. "But—"

Stiles paused and cast a questioning look over his shoulder.

A scattering of birds startled through Derek's chest with fire on their wings. "Your dad . . ." He started.

Stiles shrugged. "Will live."

He waited there, more patient than whatever resistance Derek could muster—a decidedly small reserve after the day he'd had.

With a sigh and a warming sensation in his sternum, Derek rolled off the couch and grabbed the spare pillow, following Stiles up to his room.

Stiles gave him the bed, shoving Scott around on the floor enough to make room for himself. He waited until Derek had settled and shared another one of those shy smiles before rolling onto his stomach and dropping into sleep. Much to his own surprise, not long after, Derek followed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sheriff Stillinski swirled the dregs of the mocha latte that he would never admit to liking (and only indulged in when it was one of _those_ mornings). One of those mornings where the shooting victim you're harboring isn't where you expect him to be and you almost can't hear for the sudden pounding of your own heart. The kind where you nearly call in every cop on the force but resist because your living room doesn't _quite_ look like a crime scene. It's one of those mornings where you take the stairs two at a time because the adrenaline can still do that and burst into your son's room, calling his name, only to stumble to a halt, breathless, as three bodies jerk up suddenly and stare with bleary, wondering eyes.

Definitely one of those mornings.

He drank down the shot of silty chocolate and reached for his notes on the loft break-in. California's stand your ground law would work in Derek's favor, at least. And the fact that it was three against one. Derek had been right about the murder weapon, though, and John grimaced at the realization that he was going to have to falsify evidence to make a solid case.

He flipped open the coroner's report—

And his phone started buzzing like a pissed bee.

That—his pulse jumped—that wasn't the ringer.

He grabbed the phone and stabbed at it. A red bar across the top said: Front Door, and below, video.

"Christ." He jumped to his feet. "Parrish!"

"Sir!" Parrish was already in his doorway, eyes wide. "Break-in at your house."

John watched as a mass of lens flare stumbled back toward the stairs, Derek, away from a woman with light hair. Shit. _Shit._

"Worse. Kidnapping in progress." He hurried around his desk and into the bullpen. "Slater! Call Cordova. All units, my house, now. Parrish!" He spun and found Parrish on his heels. "With me."

They were in the squad car in time to hear the dispatch call over the radio and tore out with sirens blaring. Parrish gripped the handle on the doorframe.

"Who breaks in the front door of the sheriff's house?" Parrish asked, looking over.

John gripped the wheel tighter—the only outward sign of the mash of fear, anger, and worry blowing through him. "Someone with no fear of getting caught," he answered.

He whipped the car around a corner and felt Parrish's eyes on him.

"Or who wants this Derek Hale pretty badly," the deputy added.

John spared him a glance. "Or that."

They pulled up to find one squad car on scene and Cordova's across the street, right where it should be. A deputy at Cordova's window turned as John got out of the car and frantically waved him over.

He exchanged looks with Parrish, and Parrish headed for the house.

John reached for his radio as he approached the car. "I need an ambulance at 129 Woodbine Lane. Officer down. I repeat, officer down."

The window was down. No, _missing_. And Officer Kim had his hand pressed against Cordova's neck. A ball of cold solidified in John's stomach.

"Is he dead?"

"No. Not yet. But . . . sir, look at his face."

The deputy shifted a little to the side, and John peered in at four perfect claw marks on Cordova's cheek. It sat unbalanced inside him that he couldn't tell if that was good or terrible news.

Parrish's voice carried across the street to him. "Sheriff!" He motioned for him to come inside.

John waved acknowledgment and ordered Kim to stay where he was until the ambulance arrived. Thankfully, he could already hear sirens.

Three more squad cars showed up by the time he stepped into his house, the front door laying halfway into the dining room. Parrish grabbed his arm as he tried to take another step and pointed at the floor.

"There's some kind of residue. CSU will need to take a sample."

John scrubbed a hand over his face as he looked around at his damaged home.

"I think it's safe to say they got what they were looking for," Parrish said.

"She," John supplied absently, staring at his front door, the hinges still screwed into broken pieces of wood.

"Pardon?"

He turned to his deputy. "It was a she." He pointed to a camera installed above the entryway.

Parrish looked up and narrowed his eyes. "Sir, are you saying you have the kidnapping on video?"

John's head snapped around to stare at his partner. Shit. Well. Couldn't take it back now. "I, uh. Yeah. But there's something wrong with it. Lens flare. I dunno. The techs will have to look at it. But I definitely saw a woman standing"—he measured with his hands to indicate the span of the door—"right here."

"Did you recognize her?"

He shook his head. "Only saw her from the back." His voice sounded distant, even to himself. He needed to focus. "We need to put out an APB."

"We'll need a photo."

John scowled and scratched at his neck. "I don't think we're going to get one. Use the police sketch from earlier in the year."

Parrish nodded and turned as the ambulance pulled up.

"Sir—"

"Can you stay here?" John said suddenly. "I need to get to the school."

Parrish frowned at him in confusion. "Sure, but—"

"I'll be back." He turned and hurried to the car.

"What's at the school?" Parrish called after him, frowning further when he didn't get a reply.

"I hope you all appreciate the devaluation of my profession and complete insult it is to the very concept of testing that I gave you a take home test. If any of you score less than an A, you're getting a free pass to the guidance counselor to have your head examined." Coach said, slapping the stack of papers onto his desk. "Now. Someone tell me the difference betwe—"

Knocking on the classroom door cut him off, and Stiles's stomach fell when he saw his dad's face through the window. He gave Scott a sharp look, then Lydia, and rose before Coach had a chance to react.

"Stilinski!"

"That's my dad, Coach." He motioned at the door.

Coach Finstock peered through the small window and made a face. "Well that's never good."

No. No it certainly was not. Goosebumps flashed down Stiles's arms as he rushed into the hallway with Scott close behind. He took in his father's stance: unguarded. And that particular frown was the Bad News frown.

"What happened?" Stiles felt his mouth go dry as his heart started to race.

The Sheriff glanced at the floor and then back. "He's gone."

"Gone. Gone? What do you mean gone?" He couldn't seem to control his limbs.

"I mean she busted into our house and took him. Put Cordova in the hospital."

Pain like a knife slid into Stiles's stomach and he raked his hands through his hair as he spun in a circle. "Oh. God . . ." Worry and panic slammed into him, burning.

Failed. They'd _failed_.

"What?" Scott hissed. "When? How?"

"Just now. My guys are still there gathering evidence. We put out an APB on Derek, but"—he shrugged—"without knowing what she's driving we've got nothing to track."

Stiles spun back to face them and stared at Scott. "We have to go."

Scott frowned at him. "What?"

"Now, Scott!" Stiles grabbed his elbow and crowded in close. "Last night you said you could smell her in the parking lot, right? So, if we go now, you can track her." It was the answer. The only obvious answer.

"Scott?" John asked. "Can you?"

Stiles's fingers ached where he squeezed on Scott's arm.

"Yeah. I think so, yeah," Scott replied, wide-eyed at both of them.

Stiles released his grip and slapped Scott on the chest in a partial hug. He rescued their bags from the classroom with apologies to Coach and gave Lydia a long look, taking her slight nod as acknowledgment that their timetable had just seriously changed.

Stiles fidgeted and craned forward, trying to get a better view of his house.

"This sucks."

"I'm sure they'll be gone soon," Scott offered.

Stiles huffed. "Yeah. And in the meantime getting their humany gun oil scents all over everything." He shoved a hand toward the squad cars. "This is not helping!"

"Stiles." Scott wrapped a hand around Stiles's arm and lowered it. "I'm pretty sure it'll be okay."

Indignation shot hot through Stiles's body. "Okay? Okay! Scott, she's on the run! The longer we sit here, the further she gets!"

"You don't know that," Scott replied, reasonable and calm. "Maybe she's not going anywhere."

Stiles jolted. "The dungeon below the house." He stared at Scott. "You think she'd take him back there?"

"I. Don't. Know." Scott gave him a puzzled look. "Why are you so upset?"

"Why—" He recoiled like he'd been slapped. "Why am I upset? Scott, what the hell kind of question is that? He's been abducted by his psycho ex-girlfriend. Am I not supposed to care about that?" He turned Scott by his shoulder. "Wait, do _you_ not care about that?" Cold slithered over Stiles's skin. He could picture clearly the look on Derek's face from the night before, the vulnerable hollowness of his eyes. The last time he'd felt such a violent urge to shield someone else, Lydia had been lying on the field, her blood dripping from Peter's mouth.

"Of course, I care," Scott said. "You just . . ."

"I just what? What are we even talking about here?"

Scott shrugged. "Nothing." He turned his attention to the squad cars and perked up in his seat before Stiles could argue. "I think they're leaving."

Stiles stared at Scott's profile. He felt the shape that had settled in his chest, housing the things Derek had told him, keeping them safe.

A tech slammed shut the back of the CSU van, leaving only his dad's squad car and a tow truck ready to haul Cordova's vehicle away. Parrish stopped in the driveway to talk to the Sheriff, and Stiles smacked Scott on the arm.

"What's he saying?"

Scott leaned a little and closed his eyes to concentrate. "Your dad's telling him to go with the tow truck and get the car into evidence. I think he's getting rid of him."

The truck started down the street once Parrish hopped in, and Stiles pawed at Scott's arm as he slunk down in his seat. Scott ducked down with him, patiently amused.

"Dude, I'm pretty sure he knows what your car looks like," Scott whispered loudly.

Stiles swatted at him and lifted up to peek over the edge of the window when the roar of the truck had passed, giving it a second before popping up and starting the car.

Stiles and his father bracketed the busted doorway to their house and let Scott take the lead going in. They exchanged tense looks, and Stiles bit at a cuticle. Scott stepped in slowly, then stopped with a strangled grunt. He backpedaled drunkenly, and Stiles rushed in to steady him.

"Scott?"

"Wolfsbane," Scott croaked, holding a hand to his nose and mouth.

Stiles shot his father a look, only to find realization rolling across his features.

"Dad?"

"The lab techs found this purple powder all over the floor." He motioned with his hand. "No one had any guess what it might be."

"Powdered wolfsbane," Stiles said, resignation heavy in his tone.

Scott steadied himself and patted Stiles's hand on his shoulder. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" He lifted his hands off gingerly, like Scott was a finely balanced egg.

Scott nodded and moved more carefully into the space. He shifted, opening his senses, and prowled from the entryway toward the living room. A few times he paused, visibly scenting the air, then stopped at the bottom of the stairs. When he turned back to face them, his transformations had melted away. He looked stricken.

"Scott?" Stiles ventured. He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer.

Scott's gaze dropped to the floor, and he traced something Stiles couldn't see.

"He was scared," he said, voice brittle. "Like, really scared."

Of course he was. Duh.

But something only Scott could sense struck him deeper than anything Stiles might have put into words. It was a visceral sort of knowledge, and Stiles could only watch Scott struggle to incorporate it.

"And her?" John asked. "You think you can find her?"

Scott swallowed, and his expression drew tight and dangerous. "Definitely."

Stiles drove. Obviously. Because Scott had the window down and kept sticking his head out every couple of minutes like a good bloodhound. They should have been in history class.

The world was chock full of shoulds.

Scott motioned for Stiles to slow down and hopped out the window while they were still moving toward the intersection. He jogged across one street, then another, then waved Stiles on into a left-hand turn. That put them in the direction of the Ironworks.

"Where do you think she's going?" Scott asked as he got back in.

Stiles shook his head and shifted gears. "I don't know."

The vacuum in his chest yawned.

Scott scowled as they headed into the warehouse district and motioned for Stiles to slow down again.

"Everything smells like oil and chemicals," he groused. He inhaled deeply, with a pained look.

Stiles eyed him. "Still good?"

Scott nodded and waved them on.

They took a line more or less straight south, out through the suburbs and into open country. As their possible paths narrowed, with fewer and fewer intersections, Stiles felt his anxiety coalesce into a shining black ball in his stomach. He drove in silence, the wind whipping at his hair and tossing around the fast food bags in the back. Scott dropped back into his seat, only occasionally checking for a scent. Unless they drove off into the scrub, there was nowhere else to go but straight.

"You know where we're heading, right?" Stiles asked him, without looking over.

"No," Scott replied with an audible frown of confusion.

"Yes, you do." Stiles shifted and slung his hand over the top of the steering wheel. He sighed. "Scott, the only thing out this way is Route 5."

The growl of the tires on asphalt filled Scott's silence. Stiles pressed his lips into a tight line.

"It goes all the way through Southern California past every major city and crosses like five other interstates." Stiles glanced over and found Scott watching him intently. "She could be going literally anywhere."

Scott's brow knit into a frown. "You don't think I can track her."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "That's not what I said."

"But if I was a better alpha . . ." Scott stared down at his hands in his lap.

"Scott, seriously. You're fine. But it's one scent in like a hundred thousand square miles with cards and trucks and people. Doesn't matter how good an alpha you are, there are too many variables."

He peered over at Scott, who worked his mouth but didn't speak. Maybe if they hadn't been friends for so long, he would've missed it—the stress around Scott's eyes, the rigid tension of his body. He looked like guilt.

Stiles deflated a little and pressed back into his seat. "It's not about Kate, is it," he said. Not question.

Scott lifted his head and stared out at the road ahead of them. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and for just a second, his eyes shone glassy. Then he levered himself out of the window enough to scent the air and motioned to keep going.

Two hours out of Beacon Hills, Lydia called. Scott put her on speaker.

"Hey, Lydia!" Stiles said, sing-songing with pretend cheer. Anything to break up the silence.

"Where are you guys?" she asked.

"We passed San Francisco like a half hour ago," Scott supplied. "Now we're just kinda . . . nowhere." Dirt and scrub brush blurred by the windows.

"But you've still got a trail?"

Scott nodded at the phone. "I check every exit, but she's still just heading south."

"Huh."

Stiles could picture her biting the end of a pen in thought. "Lydia?"

"What? Nothing, I'm just surprised there's enough to follow, that's all."

Stiles raised an eyebrow at Scott.

"It's"—he made a displeased face—"kinda pungent. Worse than Stiles."

"Hey!"

"I said worse!"

Stiles glared at him anyway.

"Well, while you've been ditching class, I've been looking through the bestiary like you asked," Lydia went on.

Stiles perked, changing his grip on the steering wheel. "And?"

"And there are a few options. I mostly just skimmed for entries that had some form of the word cat or pictures with a feline appearance. There's the pflichttreue, lowen, yaguaraté, mauvais dentes, and balam. So far. This thing needs an index."

Scott leaned over the phone. "Well, out of those, which seems most likely?"

"Out of these?" The sound of flipping pages came over the speaker, and Lydia sighed. "Yaguaraté or balam. They're both jaguar-esque and both from the Americas. I say hope for balam, because based on the number of skulls below each portrait, they're not quite as strong. Or maybe they just haven't killed as many hunters."

"Fantastic," Stiles said.

"Think of it this way. Yaguaraté looks like the Peter Hale version of an alpha when fully transformed, inhuman."

Scott and Stiles exchanged worried looks, and then Stiles turned his attention back to the strip of empty road ahead of them. Scott glanced down at his phone.

"Thanks, Lydia."

"Huh," she said, not exactly in the tone of a reply.

"Huh? What, 'huh?'" Stiles called.

"I don't—I don't know. I was just reading. It says the balam can show obsessive and rash behavior, especially when its family is threatened. Also, that their fur can be anywhere from light gray to purple-blue, with dark spots."

"That sounds like what we saw," Scott told her. "Does it say anything else?"

She made an indecisive sound. "Teeth, claws. Just sounds a lot like a werewolf."

"What about killing one? Does it say anything about that?" Stiles asked.

"Maybe? I'm going to need more than a lunch period. This early in the book is all hand-written. It looks like doctor's notes."

Stiles nodded. "You'll let us know if you find anything else?"

"Or if I hear anything."

He could imagine her red-lipped, self-deprecating smile and couldn't help but smile sadly back. Scott hung up the phone, and they resumed their silence. Scott had tried a few radio stations, but Stiles couldn't take it. He loved music. L.O.V.E.D. Which meant music made him feel better, and the worst thing he could imagine feeling just then was better. It jarred. Rubbed all his nerves the wrong way to want to sing to a Top 40 hit while they hunted Kate Fucking Argent.

The third time he turned the radio off while lyrics suck in his throat, Scott got the message and gave up trying. To his credit, he looked more worried than annoyed.

Two hours turned into three.

The West Side Freeway hadn't changed in 100 miles. Two lanes of mostly empty asphalt, brown grass, green scrub. They passed into farmland, with ordered rows of trees, and for all their speed, could have been standing still by the monotony.

The longer they drove, the finer and more pointed the pull in Stiles's chest got, like a thread being spun out from his sternum ready to snap from the tension or rip free. He chased it without meaning to, pressed on the gas just trying to ease the ache until Scott broke the silence to tell him to slow down. It was how he knew they were falling behind.

Stiles exhaled harshly and eyed the dash, calculating how much longer they could go before they needed gas again. A couple of hours, maybe. They hadn't started on a full tank, and the Jeep guzzled fuel. In case he missed how not built for long rides his car was, the ache turned nearly to numbing in his ass served as a reminder. He kept shifting around, while Scott remained pretty much stationery. Werewolf healing, if he had to guess.

Boredom dragged at him. A few times he twitched and realized he hadn't been paying attention—and didn't know how long. Long enough that the patch of sun on his leg had faded.

"Okay, you know what?" Stiles said suddenly. "I can't take this anymore, I'm gonna shoot myself. Find something"—he waved at the radio—"something I can't sing to."

Scott turned with a bemused grin on his face. "I thought you didn't want music."

"No. I don't want music I can sing to. Not a singing sort of day, but unless you want to end up in a ditch, I need something."

_Something_ turned out to be Spanish mariachi music.

"I hate you." He took his eyes off the road long enough to give Scott a full-on glare that only made him smile.

"You said—"

"This? This is what you choose?"

"I figured it was obnoxious!"

"Yes. Scott. Excellent choice."

Scott shrugged. "I could put it on Classical," he said, reaching for the dial.

Stiles caught his wrist. "Don't."

Scott sat back with a smirk. "I could drive."

"No, no you cannot drive. Because if you're driving, then you're not sticking your head out the window and we don't know where we're going. Which, by the way, you haven't done in a while, so now might be a good time, since there's an exit coming up."

With a roll of his eyes, Scott lowered the window. He didn't actually _have _to stick his head all the way out but did anyway. He shouted something Stiles couldn't hear for the roar of wind.

"What?"

Scott flopped back down, scowling.

"Scott," Sties prompted, panic itching at his neck.

"It's going to rain," Scott said. He stared at the road. "I can smell it in the air."

Stiles ducked his head and peered out at the sky ahead of them with its gray clouds. His heart sank. "What does that mean?" he asked, not because he didn't know, but because he needed Scott to say it.

Scott swallowed. "The rain will wash away the scent."

Even less time. They had even less time than the already rapidly depleting amount of time they had. Stiles cursed and stepped on the gas. Scott kept his window rolled down and leaned his nose out with greater frequency just to be sure.

It did, indeed, start to rain. A light dusting of warm drops pelted the windshield, and Stiles closed his eyes for just a second in bitterness. Scott hung himself out the window and didn't seem to care if he and his seat got wet. He stood and stretched his whole upper half out into the rain as though he could get closer.

He came back in long enough to report that it was already starting to fade and then flung himself back out again, shifting because who was there to spot him anyway.

The rain came down harder, soaking Scott's shirt through. He waved a hand at Stiles, motioning for him to slow down as the highway started to branch for the exit.

"Scott!" Stiles reached out and smacked him on the hip. "Scott!" Should he make the turn?

He cursed and kept going, letting the car continue to slow in the right lane.

"Stop!" Scott waved a hand frantically at him, and he slammed on the brakes diverting onto the shoulder as they skidded on the wet road.

His heart pounded in his hands.

Scott twisted until he faced backward and tipped his head skyward, then squirmed back inside.

"You have to go back," Scott said, breathless, raindrops slipping down his face.

"Have to—" Stiles cut himself off, annoyed, and turned to look behind them. "You couldn't have said that before?"

"I was trying to catch the scent before! It's weak, okay? Like really weak."

Stiles exhaled through flaring nostrils and put the car in reverse.

He managed to back up to the exit without crossing back into the lane of traffic and bumped the Jeep over the gravel median. They followed Scott's nose down exit 246 and had to stop while he ran around both sides of the intersection before hanging a left on Taft Highway. Scott slicked his hair back and leaned forward out the window.

The rimjhim of the rain blended with the hum of the tires into a hypnotic buzz.

"Slow down!" Scott called, most of his voice lost to the white noise.

"Scott, it's a highway, I can't just stop!"

They were coming up on the typical highway junction fare: a gas station complex with a few fast food places all in one and a cheap motel nearby. Tractor trailers had their own parking lot and belched diesel smoke as they lumbered out of the complex and onto the road. Scott pounded on the roof.

"Turn!"

Stiles whipped his head around. _Turn where?_

"Left, just, left!" Scott beat on the roof again.

Stiles hit the brakes and swerved for the gas station complex, narrowly missing a motor home as it pulled out the other way. He may have screamed in an unmanly fashion as the Jeep fishtailed and gasped, heart in his throat, when he brought them to a stop under the gas station canopy.

Scott hopped out and stalked around, totally indiscreet about his sniffing. He left a trail of water everywhere.

"They were here," he declared. "They stopped here."

Stiles stared at him, barely daring to hope. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Emphatic. "It's, like, thicker here. I can't explain it, but it means they were here. The canopy's keeping the rain off, so it didn't wash away."

Stiles felt his pulse pound in his fingers. "You can smell Derek?"

Scott's face fell some. "A little. Not as much as her. I'm gonna go ask the clerk if he saw anything."

Stiles nodded as Scott disappeared into the quick-mart, stunned by the fact that they had managed to come so far and still be on the trail. He stared dumbly at Scott through the door and jumped when someone honked their horn at him. He was standing in the way of a pump.

Stiles waved his apology and hurried back to the Jeep. He needed gas anyway. Might as well fill up while Scott got some intel. He shoved the nozzle into the tank and watched the price as it flittered up. He cast his gaze around at the semis expelling fumes and the families stopping for a junk food dinner. The complex was fairly new construction for being so far in the middle of nowhere.

Above him, a little black dome stared unblinkingly down.

The idea hit like an open palm, flooding his body with energy. He ran for the quick-mart and exploded through the door just as Scott turned to come out. The clerk gaped.

"Cameras!" Stiles said, flinging his hands. He pointed at the clerk. "Your cameras. Do they work?"

The guy blinked at him in astonishment, and Stiles smacked his hand on the counter. "Do they work?" he enunciated.

"Y-yes. Why?"

Stiles grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt and hauled him back outside. Excitement sizzled down his spine, and he almost dropped his phone as he dialed his dad.

"Stiles?"

"Dad!"

"Where the hell are you?"

Good question. He spun in a small circle. "We're at—" He looked at Scott and jabbed his finger toward the clerk. "I don't know. Scott's going to find out. But, look, it's a gas station with surveillance cameras. Scott says Kate was here. So all we gotta do is—"

"Get the footage," his dad finished for him. "We'll know what vehicle she's driving and can put out an APB."

Stiles panted, unable to keep his sudden burst of hope of in check. "Exactly."

Scott came back out. "20238 Taft Hwy, Bakersfield," he said.

"Dad, did you get that?" He bounced on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah. But Stiles, I don't have jurisdiction out there," John said, his voice soft with bad news.

Stiles stared at Scott, who he was sure was listening. Slowly, Scott grimaced. "Your dad might not," he said, "but mine does." He spoke like it pained him.

"Agent McCall," Stiles said into the phone. He reached out and put a hand on Scott's shoulder. "He could do it, right?"

John exhaled. "He could. Doesn't mean he will."

"Dad, it's a _kidnapping_."

"I know that. I'm gonna ask, and I'll let you know what he says."

Scott hooked a hand on Stiles's arm as he hung up the phone. "He'll do it," he said.

Stiles scoffed. "Because he's such a great guy?"

Scott let his hand fall. "Because I'll ask him to."

He squeezed Scott's shoulder. "Hey, I gotta pay and then we can get going."

But when he came back, Scott hadn't moved except to look out toward the highway disappearing into the gloom. Dread gathered on spider's legs.

"Scott?" Stiles asked.

Scott took his time in answering, and he didn't look Stiles in the eye when he did. "I think we need to go back."

It took a second to register what he'd said, what he was saying. Disbelief left Stiles breathless in the moment before his anger punched through.

"Go _back_? Scott, we're on their trail!"

"_Were_ on their trail," Scott replied. Sorrow pulled at his features.

"But—"

"Stiles, there's nothing left to follow. And we—"

"So you wanna just give up?" Anger blazed in Stiles's chest, and he couldn't keep from shouting.

"We're not prepared for this!" Scott threw his hands up. "Do you know what I have with me? My Econ textbook and _Wuthering Heights_. We don't have any money or weapons or anything!"

"Scott, you're a werewolf! You don't need weapons!"

Scott flinched and looked around them to see if anyone was watching.

"Sorry, I—" Stiles struggled to reel in his indignation. "Sorry."

Scott ducked his head and stepped closer. "I'm sorry, too. But I don't think there's anything else we can do."

Stiles crossed his arms and squeezed, burning his fury out into tense muscles. They couldn't. They just couldn't . . .

"He wouldn't stop if was us," he said. His throat ached with a growing lump of guilt.

Scott pressed his eyes shut at his words but didn't reply.

A weight pressing on Stiles's chest made it difficult to breathe. The guilt shattered through him, leaving small, deep cuts that bled emotion. "I can't—" He sucked a labored breath. "Not another one, Scott. I c—I-I can't fail anyone else. Okay?"

Scott opened his eyes and met his gaze, steady and full of concern. "You didn't."

He fought the stinging behind his eyes. "A lot of people are dead because of me. And I . . ." His throat clicked as he swallowed. "Not another one. I can't."

"You didn't fail," Scott said gently.

Stiles scoffed and swiped at his nose. "I promised that I'd—that _we'd_ protect him." He opened his arms and gestured to the storm outside the canopy. "What would you call this?"

Scott reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "Not your fault."

He would have liked to have been able to believe it, but all evidence pointed to the contrary. He stared at the Jeep.

"I'll drive. If you want," Scott said.

That was the line. That meant they'd be going back, letting Kate take Derek wherever she wanted. Do whatever she wanted. The thought made him sick.

"What if we just picked a road and took it?" he asked.

"Then we might go the wrong way. And if we're gonna do that, we might as well go back to where there are people who can help us. Like your dad."

The crushing sensation in his ribs didn't let up as he took his keys from his pocket. Or as he handed them over. Or as he climbed in the passenger seat.

Failed.

To be a failure.

To let someone else down.

He rubbed at the spot in the center of his chest where it ached and stared out at the rain. Scott played whatever he wanted on the radio. Stiles wasn't listening anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

He came to consciousness through quicksand, awareness slowly resolving into pain. His head hammered with every heartbeat, and all Derek knew for a countless age was the throbbing inside his skull. Eventually, the rest of his body joined him, tingling with pins and heavy. He ached down one side and realized, without moving, that he lay on something cold, hard, flat and that he was in motion.

He opened his eyes to darkness. When he moved to touch his face, he discovered his hands lashed together. The realization made him jerk hard awake with a full body spasm. Chains rattled somewhere near his feet, and he breathed with quick, shallow gasps. Memories rushed over him.

_Kate. Fuck. Kate._

The air smelled like her. The new her. That and rust and vaguely of Stiles's borrowed shirt.

Despite his racing heart, Derek held himself very still, hands braced against the hard, vibrating floor, and listened. The engine was unfamiliar, and the buzz of the tires on the road had the dull roar of heavy treads. Kate's heartbeat sounded steady somewhere above his head as he lay prone. Fear licked at the soles of his feet, but he clenched his jaw against it. As long as she was driving, she wasn't _here_. If he didn't draw attention to himself, she might _keep_ driving. He drew an unsteady breath and let it out slowly. _Calm . . . think_.

He felt around with careful fingers to get the lay of his surroundings. A bench was built into the wall not an arm's length away. He couldn't roll completely the other way from where he was, so the space was small, maybe four feet at max.

His body twitched, and his back felt like it was being kicked. Electricity, then. Low electrocution had a particular mix of pains, which compounded the hammering in his head from the wolfsbane. Groggy from hurt, he adjusted himself enough to sit up and had to latch onto the bench as a wave of dizziness hit. Colors burst through his vision. Breathing ragged, he waited for the sensation to pass and then hauled himself up onto the padded bench. It was, at least, a vast improvement over the metal floor. Chains clicked along the floor as he moved, too loud, too loud, giving him away. He winced and held his breath in anticipating fear. The sound and motion of the vehicle continued unaltered, and after a moment he let himself breathe again.

As he moved his hands, something bumped and slid along his thigh. It skittered when he reached for it. Derek froze in confused terror and waited. _Poundpound. Poundpound. Poundpound._ But nothing touched his leg again. With slow caution, he shifted his hands back and tried the whole motion a second time, only now he used his leg to pin the thing down until he could grasp it.

A rubberized cord.

He ran his fingers along it to where it entered a box attached to the wall—where it attached _him _to the wall.

Rage and panic burst through him, rushing hot and ice cold, at the realization of being chained. Weight pressed in from all sides, and his throat burned from holding back a roar.

He strained at the manacles holding his wrists, until his arms and chest ached in protest. He should have been able to bend metal, rip his way out.

She'd taken his strength.

He tried to shift and found she'd taken that, too. Even in the darkness, he felt exposed, vulnerable and surrounded by her scent. The familiarity made his insides quiver with humiliating weakness, and he couldn't get enough oxygen.

Derek swallowed down a sick feeling and pulled his limbs in closer.

Despair settled in his bones. Hollowed him out.

His hands shook as he felt for the end of the bench and lowered himself down, squeezing as much of his frame onto the small spot as he could manage.

They were driving. He didn't know where. Or why.

It didn't matter.

He curled in on himself to bring his nose closer to his chest and inhaled some of Stiles's scent. It rubbed a balm over some of the fear, let the constriction in his chest expand. He tried not to wonder if anyone was looking for him—if anyone had noticed his absence. Tried not to pin any hopes on a rescue.

A lifting ache above his breastbone had other plans, so he lay, rocking with the motion of the road, a warm yearning battling with cold sick dread, the kicking in his back beating out a too fast rhythm, and in time, exhaustion pulled him under.

A little after 10, Stiles banged in through the kitchen door, sluggish from too much emotion and weak with the need to sleep. Somehow, his backpack weighed more than it had when they'd left, and he scowled at the effort it would take to bring it upstairs. He dumped it in the corner of the dining room instead, perversely pleased at the thud it made when it hit.

"Stiles?" His father's voice came from the living room, but the man himself quickly appeared to block him from going straight to his room.

Stiles sighed. "Hi." _Here to make me feel worse about myself?_

"Bakersfield?" John said, incredulous. "You do know I can read a map, right? That you were halfway across the state?"

Stiles stared at his father with a blank expression. He had already gone through regret, grief, and anger on the ride back. That was all his spoons for the day. If his dad expected some articulation of remorse, he'd need to find a different vessel, because Stiles was on E, with just enough fumes to reach his bed.

His father scowled at his silence, then narrowed his eyes.

Stiles waited, suffering the scrutiny, unsure what to expect next but unable to care either. His throat hurt from not screaming in rage, from not speaking at all.

The expression on his face must have revealed something telling, because his father's tone shifted.

"Son?" he asked, searching Stiles's face.

Interrogation he could take. But not this . . . not this.

He swallowed and lost the last outpost of defense when their eyes locked. His dad looked so _worried_.

"We turned back," he croaked. Obviously. It was a stupid thing to say. But his father just nodded, like he _knew_.

"You wanted to keep going."

He nodded tightly. It took a moment to build up more words. "Scott said the trail was gone. Washed away." He turned his eyes toward the floor. "Maybe—maybe if I'd gone faster . . ." He shrugged faintly and tried to ignore the way his eyes burned.

His dad sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "It's not your fault."

A bitter laugh burst from Stiles's lips, and he glanced up with barely concealed sorrow. "Then how come it feels like it is?"

He let himself be pulled into a hug and curled onto his father's solid frame.

"He called me, Dad," Stiles whispered, the words strained. "Derek needed help, and he called _me_."

"And you tried."

"And I _failed_." No one seemed to see that—how spectacular he'd become at letting everyone down. He squeezed his eyes shut, two tears escaping despite his efforts.

"Hey." His father pulled back to get a better look at him. "Stiles, listen to me. You guys? You got us the only solid clue we have so far. No one else could have done that. _No one._" He shook him a little in emphasis.

Stiles blinked. "Scott did that."

John's face fell a little. "Scott followed a trail. _You _spotted the cameras."

That was . . . true, he had to admit. He wiped at the tear tracks on his face and shrugged.

His dad went on, "Agent McCall agreed to get a warrant for the tape, since it looks like we may have an international incident brewing."

Stiles nodded at that. That was better than Scott having to ask his dad as a favor.

"It might be a day or two before we get it, though." He delivered the news with the gentle tone of apology.

Whatever energy Stiles'd managed to gather into himself bled back out. Disappointment scrawled over his face, and his father winced.

"I'm sorry, son. That's just how it works. I can't—"

"It's okay," he muttered.

It was not okay. But what else could he do? Wheels of justice and all.

He stared at his dad's chest and blinked, lost on what to do next.

"Hey"—a gentle hand on his shoulder again, drawing him back to the moment—"why don't you get some sleep. Been a long day. The contractor will be here early tomorrow to fix the front door."

Stiles frowned slowly at him. "I thought our house was a crime scene."

"It was"—a light pat—"but I've got some pull at the sheriff's station."

That got a half-hearted smirk, and then his dad stepped aside and nudged him toward the stairs.

The last time his bedroom had been this far up, Gerard Argent had used his face as a punching bag. Truth be told, it felt about the same. He lurched into his room on autopilot and stripped off a layer of clothes, mindless of where they landed. The moonlight fell chilled on his pale skin, and he wrapped himself in a comforter to escape it. It felt like the ball of guilt in his gut, cold and perfectly formed—impervious. He lay for a while trying to breathe around it, but his lungs wouldn't fill like they should. He shivered and pulled the comforter tighter, rolling until he'd made himself into a miserable burrito.

Sometimes he saw Scott, rain dripping from his hair and face, eyes full of apology in the moment before he delivered the news.

Mostly he saw Derek back at the loft, reaching for him when he'd thought he would be abandoned. Raw, wounded fear, desperation, need.

_I'm sorry_ blistered his throat.

Derek shouldn't have trusted him.

No one should.

Morning struck with inspiration, like literary genius. Like a long con. Stiles's body told him in small aches that he hadn't slept, but the abruptness of late morning sunlight in his room said he had. Slept and slept too long. He followed the smell of coffee to the carafe of dark roast waiting for him on the kitchen counter. _Thanks, Dad_. He made himself a travel mug to drink on the way and snatched his backpack from the corner, despite it being a Saturday.

It was brilliant. _Genius._ Seriously. If everyone would just play along.

An hour later, Stiles strode into his father's office nearly vibrating. He adjusted the pack slung over one shoulder.

His father lifted his eyebrows at him, but then guessed for himself why he'd come. "We don't have the video yet," he said.

Stiles nodded a little, his face as still as he could make it. "I don't think it's gonna help."

That earned him a frown.

"You don't."

"No. I mean, yes, maybe if we find out what she's driving, maybe someone will spot it. But you were wrong last night. It's not the only piece of evidence." He paused to give his dad a chance to object, but John waited with his look of curious patience. "Severo and his men," Stiles said. "What are the chances that Kate Argent just _happens _to show up same place, same time as another family of hunters bust down Derek's door?"

"You think they were working together." His father stood and paced around his desk so they could speak in quieter confidence.

Stiles looked him in the eye. "When's the last time anything was coincidence?"

Almost reluctantly, John forced himself to ask. "What is it you want?" He hung his head and closed his eyes as he waited.

Stiles licked his lower lip. "To question Severo."

His dad's expression turned pained. "Stiles—"

"Dad, I know he knows something," he kept his voice low and urgent. "And I can make him talk."

John's head snapped up, and he eyed his son with suspicion. "You."

"Yes. I just . . . need a little bit of time alone with him."

"A little—do you have any idea how illegal that would be?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Fairly to mostly?"

"Felony." He turned away sharply, making Stiles scramble after him.

"C'mon, dad, you know these guys work outside the law." He bobbed and weaved until he could make eye contact. "They're werewolf hunters. You think this is their first hunt?"

John sighed and drummed his fingers along the surface of his desk. He cast around the room, tension and indecision pulling his mouth into a thin line. For a while, he said nothing, and Stiles could hear his own heartbeat echoing in the silence. The fall into resignation said more about the state of their lives that Stiles was quite comfortable in knowing.

"He's being brought to the interrogation room at noon," John said. "I was planning on having a second chat." Then he stood straighter and raised his voice. "Hey, Parrish!" He waited a beat, until the young officer filled the doorway. "How you feel about grabbing lunch? My treat."

Parrish started to smile and took a breath to reply, but John cut him off.

"I wanna hear the story behind that commendation."

Parrish's expression flickered. "I thought—didn't they send over the report?"

"Yes . . . and now I want to hear you tell it."

Parrish's face broke into an embarrassed smile. "Sure. Uh, lunch would be great. Sir."

John sent him off with a nod of dismissal and turned toward his son. "I imagine I'm gonna be gone for a while. Probably won't be back until, oh, I don't know, one?" He unclipped his swipe card and placed it on his desk without turning his attention away.

A grin tugged at the corner of Stiles's lips. "Right. Yes. You should—you should try the new burger place. I believe they have veggie patties that get awesome reviews." He nodded like he couldn't stop.

His dad nodded back at him. "That sounds like an excellent suggestion, son." John glanced down at his watch, then grabbed his coat off the back of his chair.

Stiles made as though to follow them out, then turned back at the last second, claiming to have left something in the office. He swiped up the key card and slipped into the observation room for Interrogation 1—the place behind the two way glass. Also the place where the recording equipment was housed. He eyed the component stack for a second trying to discern the control unit for the camera. After a minute he opted instead to just pull the plug.

Then the waiting. Usually Stiles had issues with waiting. But this gave him time to practice, a chance to run the lines in his head. He'd watched enough NCIS that he should be able to do a decent DiNozzo, if not a Gibbs. Maybe a McGee.

He stopped bouncing his knee as the idea settled within him that this body had done intimidation before. It had housed power and confidence and the utter indifference to life necessary to kill. He didn't need a TV persona to call upon those things, just the memories that lived all too close to the surface. A stillness came over him, and he lifted his eyes to see Slater bringing Severo into the interrogation room just as his father had said. He locked the hunter's wrists into handcuffs with a long chain slung around a bar built into the table.

Stiles turned toward the sound of Slater's retreating footsteps, giving him time to get back to the bullpen and out of line of sight. He stood with borrowed grace and stared down at his hands—clever hands that had fashioned bombs and plucked at the heartstrings of innocents. In that moment, in his core, something obsidian glittered.

He picked up his bag and went in, calm as the windless Dead Sea.

Severo looked him over and started to laugh.

Stiles placed his backpack carefully on the chair at his end of the table and opened the zipper with deliberate slowness. He smiled wanly down at the laughter and then cut Severo a steely look.

"And what are you supposed be?" the hunter said.

Stiles looked down into the bag. "Me?" He shrugged. "Well, I'm not a werewolf, if you're wondering. Or a banshee. But I am"—he took a small bottle out of his bag and placed it on the table—"a kid with the right connections."

He took a syringe from the bag and placed it next to the bottle, aligning it straight.

Severo's eyes narrowed, and his chuckling died.

Stiles offered him a tight smile and then picked up the bottle. "You prolly watch a lot of TV, lot of action movies. So you've heard of truth serum, right?" He lifted the bottle a little and then peered at it with intense interest. "Sodium pentathol." He gave Severo a sharp look. "Turns out, it's also called sodium thiopental, which is used in lethal injections." He paused, inspecting the label. "I have to admit, that was a surprise," he added, before setting the bottle back down.

Severo scoffed. "The death penalty's illegal in California."

Stiles looked impressed. "Yes, it is. For humans." He picked up the syringe and uncapped it, then pierced the bottle and started to draw up fluid. "Turns out it happens all the time to animals," he said, sounding as matter of fact as possible.

Severo's mocking expression slipped, and Stiles tapped the syringe to knock out all the air bubbles. That he _had _seen on TV. Then he placed it down on the table and crossed his arms. He could recall the haughty set of the fox's shoulders and the poised stillness of his expression that radiated innate superiority. Stiles slipped them on like a tailored coat.

"Why were you after Derek Hale?" he intoned, sounding both curious and disinterested. What's your favorite food. Please state your age. Explain your violence against my friend.

Severo shrugged languidly and sat back as far as his chains would let him. "He's a werewolf. I'm a hunter."

"Who's _very_ far away from home," Stiles noted. "You came a long way just for one werewolf."

They stared each other down. Severo had nothing on Chris Argent's icy glare. Stiles offered a derisive snort before he glanced down and took up the syringe in one elegant hand.

"Curious thing, sodium pentathol. Right amount of this? You start telling me what I want to know. Too much of this . . ." He smiled a wicked fox smile. "You won't be telling anyone much of anything." He took a measured step closer and dropped some of the act. "Now, I'm not a trained doctor, which should probably worry you. But I'm game if you are." He lifted his eyebrows suggestively. "Whaddya say."

The hunter's expression darkened, and Stiles could see him calculating the distance between them and the length of the handcuff chain. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

"You're sweating."

He was. "I'll ask you again. What did you want with Derek Hale?"

Severo pressed his lips together and slowly smiled.

Stiles's resolve hardened. He'd get one shot. So to speak.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he made his way to the back wall. Severo would have to turn to see him, and the twisting of his body would shorten his reach. Stiles sent up a very small prayer and then exploded into motion.

He kicked Severo's chair out from under him and jabbed with the needle, aiming for the neck. The hunter roared as he fell and swung a balled fist that caught Stiles in the side before he could dance away.

It ended in a second; and he'd let Severo pluck the needle out for himself. The hunter dangled at the edge of the table, held partially off the ground by the cuffs. He scrambled to get his feet under him and lunged in Stiles's direction, hauling at his restraints. Stiles scurried back, high on adrenaline, and panted, waiting. Deaton had said the effects would be quick.

"I will _kill _you!" Severo roared and lunged again.

Stiles wondered if he'd break his wrists.

Severo pulled the needle out and threw it at him, though it was too light to fly like a dart. Stiles skipped out of the way anyway.

"Be nice and I'll give you your chair back," he said.

Severo's chest heaved like a bull. "_Puta_, I will cut you in half."

Stiles gave him a look as though considering his fine offer. "I've actually been trying to put on weight, so no, but thanks anyway."

Severo snarled, but it didn't stick. He leaned a hand against the table top, then another, and shook his head as though clearing cobwebs. His face went slack, then confused, and he looked up at Stiles with wide, dilated eyes.

_"__Que?"_

Stiles returned a curious look and stepped a little closer to the table. "Do you, maybe, want that chair now?"

Severo nodded, then groaned and braced himself on the table like he might fall.

Stiles took the chance. He propped the chair up and slid it close enough for the hunter to snag with his foot. Severo dropped into it like his knees betrayed him and stared up at Stiles looking bewildered.

_Better living through modern medicine_.

Stiles took a position out of arm's reach, eyeing the man who had burst into Derek's home. His whole body strained toward "fight," and he shook with the effort of keeping still, tensing his muscles until they hurt. He needed to focus.

"So . . . I'm going to ask you again. Why were you after Derek Hale?"

Severo blinked at him, his head lolling from side to side as he processed the words. Unexpectedly, his face split into a grin, and he started to laugh.

Stiles frowned and glanced around in case he was missing the joke.

The hunter's laughs grew louder and deeper, full-bellied guffaws that made it difficult to maintain a threatening front.

_"__Pensó que__—"_

"English."

Severo rolled his eyes and squinted at Stiles, concentrating. "He _thought_ . . ." He paused to laugh. "He thought I wanted his sister!" Severo slapped the table and laughed harder. "Cora!" He crowed. "I said 'Who the fuck is Cora?'" He sucked in a breath and wiped tears out of his eyes.

Stiles chuckled despite himself and tried to hide it behind his hand. "And . . . why did he think that?"

Severo wheezed, smiling, and swayed in his chair. _"La Loba! Yo quería encontrar La Loba."_ He smacked his hand on the table in finality. "_Estupido_ . . . Cora." He smirked.

_La Loba_. He couldn't be sure what the rest of Severo's statement had meant, but that part seemed important. It wasn't, however, the information he was really after.

"Yeah . . . pretty stupid," Stiles agreed, his voice light as he tried to think. Severo gazed up at him with a drunken grin; he was a surprisingly happy drunk, and not really what Stiles had been preparing himself to deal with. Happy people . . . liked to talk. To share. He adjusted himself so he was partially sitting on the table and dropped his hands to his lap. "You know . . . I saw the weapons you guys were packing when my dad brought you in."

"Yeah?"

"Way cooler than anything the Argents carry."

Severo puffed up in his chair. "We take our jobs serious."

Stiles grinned at him enthusiastically. "I can see that! But how did you ever get them across the border? I mean, no way modifications like those are legal."

Severo lifted a hand and waved it at him dismissively. "The border . . ."

Stiles waited, interest and invitation written on his face. Severo leaned closer. "You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"Coyotaje."

Coyotes. Stiles could have smacked himself. "That's really smart!" he said, and Severo beamed. "D-do you know someone good?"

"Good?" he smacked the table again. "Diego never loses a man."

"That's-that's great!" Stiles added, nodding when Severo looked serious. "And, um, where would I find Diego?"

Severo rolled his eyes in Stiles's direction and narrowed them. "_Por que?_ You got family in Mexico?" he asked with a laugh.

Stiles smirked. "Maybe I want to take a vacation. Planning for spring break."

"No."

"C'mon. A town? A last name?"

Severo's mood shifted abruptly and he scowled. "Why you wanna know?"

He paused to consider his response, then leaned in a little closer, wearing the nogitsune's face. "Because the women who killed your friend took mine. And if you help me, I'll pay her back for you."

They looked at one another a long time. "Kate. Argent. That bitch is a traitor."

That was interesting. "She was working with you."

Severo snorted and held back a sneer.

Stiles leaned in a little more. "The town."

"She'll kill you."

"She'll try."

He smirked. "Lordsburg."

Stiles turned on his heel and grabbed the sodium pentathol bottle, dropping it into his bag. He snagged the used needle and hurried out of the room.

"What makes you think you stand a chance!" Severo called after him.

He closed the door before having to reply.

Sheriff Stilinski and Deputy Parrish came in just as Stiles was heading out.

"Back already?" Parrish turned, giving Stiles at look as he glided by.

Stiles shot him a wide grin. "Like I never left!" Then slung an arm around his father's neck and pulled him into a huddle. He dropped his voice. "If there's anything you want to ask our felon, I'd suggest trying within the next 20 minutes or so."

John narrowed his eyes. "Do I wanna—"

"No, you do not. But you'll thank me. Also, give him a glass of water."

He gave his dad a hard pat on the back and held the borrowed key card up between them.

"Ah." His father plucked it from his hand. "I thought I'd dropped it."

Stiles's expression went innocent. "Yeah, you should be more careful with that."

They shared a moment of silence and barely hidden smirks. When his father nudged him to get going, Stiles went.

He aimed his car toward Scott's house and dialed Lydia.

"Where are you?" she demanded, no preamble, not even a hello. Stiles set his phone in the holder.

"Just left the station. Why? What's wrong?"

"What's _wrong? _You left school in the middle of the day. And you didn't—" She cut herself off just as her temper started to rise. She got shrill when she got angry.

"Didn't . . .?" He waited.

"Call. Text. Anything. You could've been halfway to Mexico."

He couldn't help but grin at the phone. "We kinda were halfway to Mexico," he admitted.

Rustling came over the connection, and Lydia's voice sounded closer somehow, full enough to fill the car. "And?"

"And . . . we lost the trail. Scott said the rain washed it out. We had to come back." He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel in irritation.

"But you're going back."

Stiles shrugged at the phone, nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

"Stiles."

"Yes. Okay, yes." He hadn't even asked Scott yet, and it occurred to him with some surprise that Scott's refusal wouldn't actually change his mind.

Lydia was silent long enough that the air grew tense.

"I'm coming with you," she said at last.

The Jeep swerved a little.

"What? No, Lydia, we just got you back, I'm not—"

"I wasn't asking," she said.

He slowed for a stoplight and stared at the phone with mixed feelings. "But . . . you don't even _like _Derek."

Lydia sniffed pointedly. "We don't have to be friends for me to help." Her tone softened. "Plus"—he could imagine the artful shrug she was making—"he'd do it for you."

Her words brushed warm across his skin, and he cleared his throat. That seemed reply enough, because Lydia went on.

"So you might as well just tell me where you're going."

"Right now? Scott's house."

"Fine. I'll see you there."

She hung up before he could object.

Lydia made a strained sound and flung her hands out in the universal sign for: Wait a Goddamned Minute. She rolled her lips over her teeth and seemed to work through several different options before settling on what she really wanted to say.

"You . . . want to hire a coyote to smuggles us out of Mexico?"

Stiles suddenly felt smaller and several IQ points shallower than before. "I—yes?"

"Us?" Scott frowned, looking between them.

Lydia's glance cut glass. "Oh, I'm not letting you do this by yourselves."

"You're not."

She rolled her eyes and turned fully to face Scott. "Neither of you even speak Spanish."

"I take Spanish," Scott replied, defensively.

"Yeah, and you're getting a C," Stiles added. "She's got a point."

Lydia brushed non-existent fluff from her skirt and fought to not smirk too hard. Scott scowled for a few seconds before giving in with a defeated nod and toss of his hands. For an alpha, he was pretty bad at alpha-ing. After a second, Lydia lifted her eyes to Stiles.

"Tell me this plan again?"

He crossed his arms uncomfortably. "We go to Lordsburg and find this Diego guy. Tell him we're going to need him to get us back across the border and make arrangements."

"That's it."

He shrugged.

"That's the whole plan."

Stiles sighed in exasperation. "Lydia, I don't have much to work with here. We know they came up, together, to get Derek. We know Kate took him. We know she was last seen—smelled—heading south. If she knows she can cross safely at the place they used to come up, why go somewhere else? We're just a bunch of kids on vacation on the trip down, so the border guards will let us through. It's just coming back with someone without a passport that's the problem."

"Why go to Mexico at all?" Lydia asked.

She kept asking the questions he'd avoided because he didn't have answers. It's not that she was trying to sink their plans as much as she seemed so right while doing it. Stiles's confidence flagged, and he dropped onto Scott's desk chair.

"I don't know. They held him there once, maybe they were going to take him back. Maybe there's a reward."

Scott turned his big, hopeful eyes on Stiles. "Maybe when they get the tape from the gas station, it'll help?"

Stiles started shaking his head before Scott even finished. "I don't know. Look." He pulled up a map on Scott's computer. "Lordsburg's in New Mexico, right? That's 15 hours from here straight driving. Another 3 from there to the border. She's had 24. She could already be across."

"If she didn't stop," Lydia said, leaning over Stiles's shoulder for a better look. "Do you think she'd stop?"

He gazed up at her, considering. "I think . . . I'd prefer to assume the worse where Kate is involved."

"That doesn't mean it's useless," Scott said. "My dad can alert the Mexican authorities, and they can be on the lookout."

Stiles spun around in the chair as Scott and Lydia moved back to their seats on the bed. He scratched at his scalp.

"You guys realize that _actually _finding them in all of Mexico is probably the easy part, right?"

Scott's confusion articulated itself in a frown. "What's the hard part?"

Stiles leaned his elbows against his knees and let his eyes linger on the ground. "The average coyote cost two grand per person," he admitted.

"Two—" Scott's shout cut off mid-sentence. "Two _thousand_ dollars? Stiles, where are we gonna get money like that?"

"I don't know, Scott! In case you missed it, this is kinda a work in progress!"

Scott paced across the room, shaking his head. "No way my mom has that type of money to spare."

Stiles dropped his head into his hands, bleak hopelessness chilling his veins. "Maybe . . . maybe we can find Peter. I mean, I've never asked, but they don't have jobs, so they must have money somehow . . . And Derek's family. Peter'd pay to help family. Right?" He lifted his head and found Scott standing in the middle of the room, staring. "What?"

Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, waving Stiles and Lydia closer. He dialed Chris Argent.

Stiles peered at the phone. "Isn't he in France?"

"Yeah."

"Scott?" Chris's voice came over the line, remarkably clear for halfway across the world, and Scott turned on the speakerphone.

"Hi, Mr. Argent," Scott replied. The confidence seeped out of him, leaving an awkward boy. Too much tangled history lay between them for Stiles to even imagine how either of them were feeling.

"What's wrong, Scott?" Chris asked, balanced between patient and alarmed.

Scott's eyes widened. "How did—"

"Because you're calling."

He left it unsaid that Scott didn't have too many reasons to call an Argent anymore.

Stiles motioned for Scott to get on with it, and Scott cleared his throat.

"When we attacked that armored car, Allison offered Kincaid $150,000 for the scroll. Do you . . ." Guilt got the better of him for a second, and Scott had to close his eyes. "They took the briefcase from your house. When the charges were dropped, did they give it back?" He opened one eye and peeked at the phone.

"Are you asking me if I have spare cash?"

Scott glanced at Lydia, then Stiles, then back. "Yes?"

Chris was quiet for a second. "No. It was Katashi's money, not mine. Probably in federal lock-up with the rest of his things."

A collective sigh rose on their end of the phone.

"Scott, what do you need with that kind of money?"

Stiles put a hand on Scott's arm, and they exchanged a look of caution.

"Some . . . hunters attacked Derek in the loft," Scott said. "They took him. We think they're from Mexico."

"Araya," Chris ground out the name.

Stiles leaned closer to the phone. "One of them's named Severo," he offered.

"Araya's son," came the reply. "She came to see me while I was in jail, pretending to be my lawyer." He huffed a humorless laugh. "Guess now I know why. Do you know what they were looking for?"

Stiles glanced at his friends, rubbing his fingers across the pad of his thumb. "La Loba. He said they were looking for La Loba, but that it didn't mean Cora Hale."

Chris heaved an audible sigh. "No. No, it doesn't mean Cora Hale. La Loba's a legend, like the Loch Ness Monster. She's the mother of werewolves. They say she wanders the desert gathering the bones of wolves, and when she has a full skeleton, brings a new werewolf into being."

Stiles stared at Scott, then Lydia. Lydia's perfect brows drew into a frown.

"So, they think if they kill her they put an end to any more werewolves?" she asked.

"That's one interpretation. Another says that if you kill the progenitor of a line, their progeny dies, too."

Stiles's eyes went wide, and both he and Lydia stared at Scott in horror. "But that. But wouldn't that kill _all _werewolves?" Stiles asked, a little breathless.

"I don't know about all. La Loba isn't the only werewolf origin story."

"Lycaon," Scott said in a hollow voice.

"Yes. But . . . some, maybe? If the legend is even true? I can't say. And I don't know what they want with Derek."

"We need to cross the border," Stiles said, filled with new urgency. "We know they used a coyote to smuggle themselves up. We think we can cross somewhere near there and use the same one to smuggle ourselves back once we've rescued him. But . . ."

"You need money," Chris finished for him, his tone gone somber. "I don't have the money from the gun deal. But . . . I do have some . . ." He trailed off. "I do have some I can send you. Do you know how much you'll need?"

Stiles glanced quickly around. "We uh . . . well, it'd be eight thousandish for the four of us, once we have Derek. I don't know, exactly. That's just average cost."

Chris made a low, thoughtful sound. "Well let's start with ten."

Scott frowned at the phone. "Are you sure? I don't—"

"Scott . . . There's nothing else I'm going to spend it on. It's . . . Allison's college fund," Chris told them.

Lydia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Scott locked eyes with Stiles, his pieces slowly falling.

"Mr. Argent," Stiles whispered, strained, the only one of them able to speak.

"It's okay," Chris said, his voice gone thick with a forced smile. "I guess she just isn't done saving people yet."

Stiles blinked, unable to breathe through lungs of ice. A tear slipped down his face before he realized. "You don't have to," he made himself say.

"It's done, Stiles. Get him back."

"O-okay."

"Scott?" Chris called, expectant.

"Yessir," Scott breathed. "We will."

"Good. Is it just the two of you?"

Lydia moved closer to the phone. "I'm going," she said, sounding small.

Chris made a sound like a sad smile. "Well they'll need someone to keep them in line. And don't let them tell you otherwise."

She laughed like broken glass, caught between a smile and a sob.

"You'll need to take the money out in cash, so I'll send it Western Union to a bank account if you have one."

"I have one," Lydia said with a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "A teen account, but . . ."

"It'll do. But it'll take three days for the transfer to clear, you all understand that?"

Lydia's cheeks flushed as she avoided their eyes. "It won't be a problem." They looked confused, but she didn't elaborate.

"All right," Chris said. "If there's anything—if there's anything else."

"We'll call," Scott promised, "Thank you," and hung up.

They stared at one another in gutted silence, unsure if it was okay to set aside the unexpected surge of grief. Stiles touched Lydia's arm, but she pulled away.

From the doorway, a new voice said, "You didn't tell him about Kate."

Melissa stood with her arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the door.

Scott whirled around to look at her. "I-I didn't think it would help."

"If he knew she was alive? Scott, it's his sister."

"His _evil _sister," Stiles corrected.

Melissa gave him a disappointed look. "I still think you should have told him."

Scott looked at the floor, then up at his mother. "I think he's been hurt enough."


	5. Chapter 5

They agreed to pack light.

Stiles was halfway down the hamper before he remembered that he'd lent Derek his favorite shirt. The thought made him pause, clutching a handful of socks. He shook himself free and filled his duffle with a mix of layers, good for mercurial weather. He grabbed his father's back-up service weapon from the cabinet in the bedroom and his bowie knife from the footlocker in the closet where all the Gulf War memories lived. They didn't own anything made from silver.

Stiles nestled a bottle of mountain ash in next to the revolver, glanced once around his room, and left.

He strapped an extra gas can into the back and told Scott he was taking the long route over.

Stiles ducked beneath the police tape stretched across the entrance to Derek's loft and spent a good couple of minutes wandering around before realizing that the dressers were upstairs. He picked a few things he remembered seeing Derek wear and tried not to stare too hard at the pair of underarmors from the top drawer.

He shoved everything into a small duffle, which required a little extra encouragement to zip shut, and arrived back at Scott's last.

Lydia, shockingly, had the smallest bag. She informed their stunned faces that she had "travel clothes," which packed small, and just the right separates to create the illusion of many outfits. Their eyebrows rose higher.

"I'm efficient," she declared. And that was the final word after she called shotgun.

They left town on the same route Scott and Stiles had taken the day before and called the sheriff station as they passed by San Francisco.

"Hey, dad," Stiles said, artificially upbeat.

"Stiles."

"Also Scott and Lydia," Stiles corrected, and the two chimed in their hellos.

They could hear the creak of the Sheriff's office chair as he moved. "Am I not gonna like what I'm going to hear?"

Stiles smirked. "Probably not. Look, we've got sort of a trail. We're following it—"

"Not good enough."

"Dad!"

"Stiles, this is our deal. No lies."

"I'm not lying!"

"But you are leaving out important details."

"Well"—he turned his palms up briefly and adjusted his grip on the wheel—"I don't want you to worry."

"Son, I am so beyond the point of worry. Just . . . tell me. So when it goes wrong I can help."

Stiles shot Lydia a deadpan look, and she tried not to laugh. "Your confidence is inspiring. Fine."

With a sigh, he explained their plan such as it was, leaving out the part about Allison's college fund, as much for their own sanity as anything.

"Does Melissa know about this?" was the first thing his father had to say when he was done.

Stiles looked in the mirror at Scott.

"Uh, yeah, actually," Scott said, leaning forward from the back seat. "She gave me a first aid kit to bring. It's . . . um . . . well stocked."

John sighed. "Where are you now?"

Lydia fielded that one. "Just past the exit for Modesto."

"All right. I want progress reports, you got that? Every few hours, just a location. If I—" John paused for a calming breath. "If we need to find you, we need some place to start. Lydia, can I trust you with that?"

She smiled sadly. "Well, since I can't drive stick, I'm stuck navigating anyway."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Scott's head appeared between the front seats again. "What about the tape, did you get the tape?"

"Not yet. Your father says they've got a local driving it up today. Should get here this evening."

Stiles nodded, even though his dad couldn't see. "You'll call us?" he asked.

"When I have something I can tell you. Even after it gets here, it might take a few hours to find the footage."

"Good old fashioned police work," Stiles replied with a sigh.

"Hey!" John's tone took on a hard, offended edge. "I'm doing the best I can. And _not _throwing you in a cell for your own good."

"I know, dad. I know. I'm sorry. It's not . . ." Stiles shrugged and glanced at his friends, conscious of their eyes on him. "We just need to find them," he said. The delicate thing in his chest ached. He hung up the phone.

Scott continued to hover just over Stiles's shoulder and barely at the edge of his vision. It was annoying—more annoying than it should have been, which was, in itself, annoying. Stiles huffed.

"You know," Scott said at length, "it's okay to say it."

He looked him in the eye in the mirror. "What? Say what?"

Scott averted his gaze and spoke low. "That you're worried."

Stiles stared at him. How did—

He felt his heart thump a little faster and narrowed his eyes. Scott glanced back at him, abashed, and sniffed the air just to prove his point.

_Werewolves_. "Really, Scott?"

"I can't help it! But it's okay. We'll get him back." Scott had a look on his face like he wanted to say more, but he sank back into his seat instead.

Worried. Of course he was worried. Who wouldn't be worried? Friends kidnapped by evil psychos is one the myriad definitions of worryable offense.

Lydia put on music and got out a sketchbook, and the California countryside droned by. They switched drivers when they stopped for gas.

Hours later, they pulled into the same Bakersfield rest stop Scott and Stiles had been to the day before. No one had much to say, save the standard pleasantries of ordering food and eating. Scott had his hands full of convenience store junk food when Lydia suggested they pull off at a real grocery store and get snacks and water. They would definitely need bottles of water once they crossed the border. Scott returned almost everything. Except the Ring-Dings.

Sheriff Stilinski called a little past 8. Stiles held the phone forward from the back seat.

"Hey, dad, what'd you find?"

"Well. Good news, actually. We found just what we wanted. Kate and her car. Best I can tell from this angle, she's driving a white Land Rover. A big one."

"Land Rover?" Scott's face crinkled. "What does that look like?"

Lydia made a sound and opened her laptop. "What model?" she asked the Sheriff.

"Look up Defender 110."

Stiles watched Lydia's screen. "How do you know that?" he asked his father.

"Brits use them for the military. Saw them in Iraq. Woulda traded my HumVee for one of those in a heartbeat."

Lydia hmmed and turned the screen so Scott could see. "Seems kind of . . . indiscreet," she said.

The Sheriff agreed. "Especially in the US, because they don't sell them here. I already have an APB out. She's had quite a head start, though, so . . ."

Lydia tilted her head, considering. Stiles couldn't read her expression when she looked at him, but he motioned for her to speak.

"Sheriff, how would you normally track someone?" she asked, though the leading tone of her voice suggested she already knew some of the answer.

"Normally? Follow the money. We'd get their credit card and bank card records, see if there've been any purchases. After that, cell phone. People watch a lot of TV these days, though, so they've gotten better about not leaving a trail."

Stiles watched Lydia's face. "But since Kate's legally dead, she doesn't have a bank account or credit cards."

"At least not ones in her name," the Sheriff agreed.

Lydia tapped a finger against her laptop rhythmically, thinking. "How did she pay for the gas?"

There was a clunk on the other end of the line as Sheriff Stilinski put his phone down. "Hold on," he said, sounding distant. A few seconds later he picked up the phone again. "Lydia, you _are _a genius." That made her smile, and Stiles nudged her arm with his. "She paid inside, which could mean cash, but she definitely used the ATM while she was in there. You can see her through the window." The Sheriff's excitement filtered into the car. "I need to get McCall in here. If he can get the ATM records, we might be able to find the account she's using."

"It'll give you another way to track her," Stiles said.

He could hear his father smile. "Yes, it will. I'll let you know what I find."

"Thanks, dad."

"Drive safe. Keep me posted."

He hung up, and Stiles squeezed Lydia's shoulder, beaming. She shrugged it off, but smiled back nonetheless.

They stopped, stretched, switched places so Lydia could recline in the back. She dozed, half-listening to the radio, and read about _La Loba_—a myth of a woman on the other end of the spectrum from herself. One that followed the dead, ushered them to life. The resources were scarce. She wondered how she did it. If she was a witch, a druid, a creature with a human face. The songs on the radio buzzed in her ears, blending together with the slipping consciousness of dreams. They'd been driving for nearly 10 hours. Scott insisted he could keep going at the last rest stop and bought a giant Mountain Dew to keep himself alert. Stiles agreed to wait until Scott gave in to start on his haul of sugar and vitamins.

The waning moon spilled silver across the empty countryside.

Without meaning to, Lydia dropped into sleep.

She awoke suddenly to an angry alarm from her laptop announcing itself low on power. The screen went black, and she sighed dramatically. Stiles turned around in his seat at the sound.

"What's wrong?"

She waved her fingers dismissively toward the screen. "Dead battery," she said, the words rolling out slowly as her thoughts gathered. She looked toward Stiles, unable to see more than the shadow of his outline against the illuminated road ahead. A spark spread down her arms. "Power," she said. She closed the laptop and swung her legs around to lean in closer.

"What about it?"

"Ms. Blake needed sacrifices to get her power, right? But not _just_ sacrifices. She needed the telluric currents to boost the power."

"Yeah . . ."

She dropped her voice. "Well, if _La Loba_ can really raise werewolves, wouldn't that take . . . a _lot_ of power?"

Stiles's head tilted. "You think she'd use a current."

Lydia shrugged. "I think powerful things are drawn to Beacon Hills because of them. So, if she's powerful, then maybe she's drawn to them, too."

Stiles tapped his fingers along the edge of the seat. "We should get another map."

She nodded back at him. "But of where?"

"And how?" Scott asked. "Didn't you just take the first one from Danny?"

"Borrowed, Scott. And he had to get the information from somewhere."

Scott laughed lightly. "So, what, you wanna just ask him?"

Lydia lifted her shoulders when Stiles turned to her for an opinion. "Couldn't hurt." She inclined her head toward the darkness outside. "Might want to wait until tomorrow though."

"He's going to think we're crazy."

She shrugged again. "He's going to be right."

With that, she sat back and yawned. It spread around the car.

Stiles checked on Scott's state of consciousness and declared they were switching in two hours whether Scott liked it or not. He set the alarm on his phone. Lydia put her laptop away and went back to listening to the drone of the radio and the road, drifting, and listening, until she could not tell waking from a dream.

The slam of the driver's side door shocked Derek awake and brought his senses into sharp focus. Hard ground squelched with each footstep as she walked the length of the vehicle, driving his pulse higher. He bolted upright and pressed back against the interior wall. Though there was no chance of disappearing, the instinct to hide remained, and he could not stop from drawing back the closer he heard her come.

A thunk.

The back door to the SUV swung open, letting in a blade of moonlight that the tinting on the window had kept hidden. Some paltry interior lights turned on. He'd known it was night by the pull of the moon against his skin. He did not know how many nights it had been.

Kate leaned in through the doorway, perfect face serious and deadly. The moon cast her hair in a silver halo.

Derek's stomach tensed. He stared hard, waiting.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Kate said, sickly sweet. A red smile split her face, and Derek felt himself get queasy. In a single fluid motion, she hauled herself up into the SUV and crouched just inside the doorway. A leather strap dangled from one hand.

Derek's eyes locked on it, then flicked down to the bindings on his wrists. He hadn't been able to see them before. They looked like leather hospital restraints—buckles and eyeholes instead of handcuffs. The thing in Kate's hand was more familiar still.

He could not stop the shudder that passed through him or the bile that rose up, burning, to his throat. His palms got clammy.

Kate's grin deepened at his response. "Time for your walk," she said brightly.

He didn't answer, didn't move. He could not tear his eyes from the collar she held.

She came closer, and one of his elbows banged against the wall as he jerked back reflexively. The air got suddenly thin.

Kate lifted the collar to eye level, and she watched his eyes trace the curious cord that ran down from it. "My own little invention," she supplied. She took a device that looked like an electrified baton from her hip and waggled it in the air briefly. "Same voltage." Then she held the collar open to show him the metal strip that ran long the underside. "Different delivery."

He felt sick. Cold sweat gathered at the small of his back and dripped.

"Here's what's going to happen." Kate leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm going to cut the power and free your hands. And you're going to put this on."

He narrowed his eyes, which made her laugh. He could _feel _the trick in the air, as palpable as the fear that turned his blood cold.

"I know what you're thinking. Why not just attack me then, right?"

He may have nodded, allowed that the thought had crossed his mind. Mostly Derek kept himself silent because she had come to this prepared. All of this, so prepared.

Kate lifted a sculpted eyebrow. "You're gonna be good, Derek, because I'm a lot stronger than I used to be. And because I still have one of these"—she set a baton on the floor next to her knee—"and if you won't do this the easy way, then we'll do it the hard way." Her eyes traveled his body, and it felt like being stripped. She would, he knew intimately, _enjoy _the hard way.

Derek looked from the collar to the baton to her face, his will to fight slipping a little more each time. He couldn't speak over the lump of terror in his throat.

_Breathe. Breathe._

She leaned close enough to kiss, and he fought not to turn his face away, to give her the satisfaction. The wicked smile on her lips spoke volumes anyway.

"Deal?" she whispered, her voice husky in a way he used to ache for.

A sneer touched his mouth, and despite the fear he couldn't quite control, he glared. If anything, that pleased her more.

She disappeared out of the vehicle, and a few moments later the painful buzzing under Derek's skin stopped.

He slumped with a groan of relief, like stepping under a waterfall. A second later, Kate crawled back into the confined space, filling it with her oppressive scent. She set the leashed collar to one side and the baton on the other, then held out her hands. She motioned for the manacles when he didn't move.

A werewolf's powers didn't come back immediately after a current was cut off. The Argents had experimented thoroughly with the effects—Kate taught Derek his limits. They both knew from experience just how long he had before his strength returned, and he could tell from the scrutinizing way she looked at him that she was counting down.

She could not be trusted. Could _not_ be trusted.

He couldn't have said what turned his lizard brain screaming. Just that he couldn't catch his breath, and the primal urge to run overpowered nearly everything else. His thoughts scattered, leaving only these terrible emotions. He shook involuntarily as he held out his hands.

Kate opened the padlock and undid the buckles, and the manacles dropped to the floor. She grabbed her baton and the powered end of the leash.

"Put it on," she said in a tone that reached all his secret places and commanded his shame.

Derek stared at the small strip of leather and metal. It made his stomach churn. Perhaps he could fight.

"Derek." A warning.

He took it in one unsteady hand.

This was not new between them. Even while he held it, he could feel it against his throat, stripping away his pride. Marking him a thing—_her_ thing. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

"Derek!" Louder.

He shot her a look of pure hate and held the gaze against all instinct as he pressed the leather to his skin and slipped the buckle in place. He could stand this. In defiance, he could stand it and let the roar of outrage die on his tongue if he must.

Pity was he could not stop the shaking.

Kate clipped the baton back on her hip and kissed at the air in his direction. "Always a good look on you," she said, as she turned to step out into the night air.

Another piece of his dignity died as her words slipped sharp under his skin. She tugged when the length of the leash ran out, and it nearly knocked loose a sob. Derek lurched to follow, shackles scraping along the metal floor, and wondered when he had become this fragile.

He emerged into the cool night air of the desert, surrounded by a sea of stars. Derek looked around in cautious silence at a shadowed landscape of mesquite and grass and not a single artificial light. Wherever they were, they were profoundly alone.

Kate slapped a roll of paper towels against his chest, and he looked down dumbly as he took it. She lifted a hand, and Derek followed the gesture to a small tree not far away.

It took him a second. _Time for your walk. _Humiliation exploded from his core and burned hot across his face. "You've got to be kidding."

Her expression pulled tight, amused. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Derek stared at her as the bottom of his stomach dropped out. Now that he thought about it, he was acutely aware of the needs of his body. That it had been days, two days? since he'd so much as taken a piss.

He was going to do this. Because he had to.

A person could suffer a lot if they suffered in succession, one inhumanity at a time.

His cheeks burned, and he walked, unable to lift his eyes from the ground. His gut roiled with mortification.

One motion at a time. A button. A squat. At least it was dark.

Things could be worse. They could _always_ be worse. He tried not to imagine how. Ignored how short the cord tying him to Kate happened to be and how much her new and improved self could hear.

Just this bit. Survive this.

It was their secret.

No one would have to know the part of him that just died.

She pulled on the leash impatiently. "Stop stalling."

Derek folded a few extra pieces of shockingly white paper and dropped them on the dark desert floor. He followed the cord back to her and gathered enough defiance to look her in the eye as he crossed his arms over his chest.

She looked expectant. "What do you say?"

Humiliation punched him again, and he stayed silent, glaring.

Kate tsked and shook her head sadly. "I _know_ you have better manners than that." Delight glittered in her voice.

He made no reply.

Kate smirked and hit button for the taser.

Pain ripped white across his body, and Derek dropped with a cry. He rolled as the shocks twisted his muscles. Nothing worked. Not his lungs, not his limbs. Tears gathered in his eyes as the shocks burned white hot needles. He tried, failed, to breathe and convulsed in the dirt instead. Kate stepped closer, towering over him, and he stared up at her with wide, terrified eyes. She lifted an eyebrow.

He jerked and managed to gasp in a breath as the shocks faded. After a few seconds, he could control his body enough to brace against the ground. Hot shame crept up his neck. But this, too, he could do. One piece at a time. "Thank you," he ground out, a small death in each word.

She smiled. "See? Manners."

Kate grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet with a swiftness evocative of her newfound strength. Derek jerked out of her grasp, unsteady and glowering.

"What do you want?" He dropped into a ready stance.

Kate smiled. "I want the She-wolf."

Derek deflated and rolled his eyes so hard his head moved with them. "I don't _know_ any she-wolf!" he shouted.

"And _I _don't believe you!" She took a step closer, and Derek tensed. "Do you remember?" she asked, her whole aura shifting to something soft and pleading. "Do you remember how much it hurts me when you lie?"

He did. How she broke down when she thought he wasn't telling the truth—that he'd been somewhere else, with someone else. She couldn't trust him, couldn't love someone she couldn't trust. But if he was careful, tried harder, he could earn it back.

They were _her_ lies. And yet a part of him still knew itself to be unworthy and wished to be better, even now. He could feel her words on his skin, a thin coating of accusation, disappointment, and sin. Such things were poison in the blood, scars on the heart. And he had never developed adequate defense.

"All you have to do is tell the truth," Kate said, earnest and sweet. I'm trying to help you tell the truth.

Derek drew an unsteady breath, cold sweat sliding down his spine. "I don't know any she-wolf," he said again, each word deliberate and slow.

Kate's expression hardened.

She moved like lightning. One step and she drove her fist into his stomach, doubling him over with unexpected pain. She'd never hit that hard as a human.

He couldn't breathe.

She grabbed him and slammed his face down onto her knee, breaking something and laying him flat. "Then we'll just have to jog your memory." Her skin shifted into a deep blue that blended with the night.

Derek swung his claws out in wild defense as she reached for him, but she darted out of the way and switched in a kick to the abdomen for the punch she had been going for. She hit the taser and then dropped the handle so she could use both hands. He couldn't move as she pulled him up by the hair or hide as she socked him in the jaw, roaring with fury. He lost count of the hits, and lost consciousness not long after.

"Derek?"

Stiles's voice, hushed and wary.

He tried to open his eyes. One cracked open far enough to see daylight in the car interior. Mostly he saw the floor.

Pain everywhere. His face, his ribs. He moved his arms, mostly pinned beneath his body, and hissed at a sharp, sudden stabbing that lanced white through his vision.

"Stiles?" he tried to say, confused. It came out a grunt.

Derek started to lift his head, but hands pressed him back down, gentle but firm.

"Don't. Don't try to move. The cold metal's good for the swelling."

Stiles? But . . . no. No, _impossible_. His one good eye fell shut, and he swallowed thickly.

"Shouldn't be here," he muttered. "She . . . got you?" The effort of words cost him, left him panting.

"No. Kate doesn't know I'm here."

That didn't make sense. She'd find him, hear him. Hurt him. Urgency rushed through Derek's blood, and he strained to move, struggling through the pain.

"Derek, stop. Stop!" Stiles's hand pressed on his shoulders. "You need to rest."

He needed to put himself between Stiles and Kate. Protect him from her violence, from her hands.

"Run," he croaked, throat too dry.

Somewhere above his head, Stiles shifted, his clothes whispering and his scent coming closer. "What?" Stiles asked quietly.

Derek concentrated and tried again. "Run."

Gentle fingers touched his hair. "I'm not running."

He should have been angry; he couldn't find the energy for it.

"I checked the restraints while you were out. Can't open them without a key. And I don't see a way to cut the power. So, looks like we'll just have to wait."

Derek grunted.

"You seem to be healing, just slowly."

He made a sound of assent. The electricity didn't thump quite so hard, he thought. Or maybe it just got lost among the broken bones and bruises.

Stiles should go. He thought about telling him again—that it was the smart thing. But long fingers drew soothing circles through his hair, untangling the aches from his shoulders, and he could not wish away that small comfort. It sent chills down his spine. After a moment, he gave up fighting.

"It's okay," Stiles whispered. "I'll keep watch."

Derek nodded vaguely and concentrated on the feel of Stiles's fingers against his scalp, rhythmic and kind, urging him to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The Jeep's engine has a particular voice that makes it easy to pick out of the crowd. It rose above the drone like someone calling your name, and sometimes Derek would stop what he was doing without realizing why because he'd heard it before the sound really registered. He'd heard it now, pulling into the parking lot. Then nothing.

He frowned as a minute ticked by without hearing the Jeep's door slam, and something in him moved with concern. He considered going down, considered that maybe Stiles had a good reason for sitting in the parking lot by himself.

Derek tried to read the book in his hands, but the words slipped away from him. He resigned himself to waiting with a sigh.

It took another five minutes before he heard the car door, then a couple more as the elevator worked. He stood poised just inside the loft's door. Stiles's heartbeat carried to him before the elevator reached the top: calm, telling him nothing. Derek frowned in curiosity and waited until Stiles's footsteps came closer.

He pulled open the door with a gentle, steady tension; Stiles didn't attempt to knock. It was as though they always greeted one another this way. Stiles lifted his eyes until they made contact, with no attempt to hide that they were red-rimmed and bloodshot. His frame bowed with a weight Derek could not see and skin held the pallor of misery. He smelled of tears.

"You look like crap," Derek said. He meant it kindly.

Stiles huffed through his nose and looked down, subdued. "Thanks." Then nudged his way inside, brushing Derek's arm with his.

Derek watched him for a second with growing worry before hauling the door shut and following in his wake. Stiles lowered himself onto to the couch like one of them might break. Watchful, Derek perched on a nearby chair and adopted silence. Stiles could always be counted on to fill a silence.

His voice cracked when he tried to speak, so he swallowed and tried again. "I don't know if I can go to Allison's funeral," he said, gaze hovering on the coffee table between them.

Derek lifted an eyebrow in question, although he was fairly sure Stiles couldn't see. He didn't have a response to that.

Stiles sat back and kept his eyes on his hands in his lap. His voice grew thin. "The last one I went to was my mom's. I don't"—he looked pained—"I don't know if I can take it." He sighed and stopped picking at his fingernail. "That's not true," he admitted, his shoulders sinking a little more. "I don't—" He looked up at Derek with pleading eyes. "I don't have the right. You know? How can I be there when I—" Stiles cut himself off as the tears rose up. His face reddened, but he fought to get it out, his voice thick. "When I'm the one—"

"It wasn't you," Derek told him. He leaned forward and resisted the urge to reach out.

Stiles shook his head and gazed toward the window, battling his emotions back. His jaw shuddered as he spoke. "Scott will hate me if I don't go."

The air between them tasted like sorrow, but Stiles was too far away to touch. Derek's heart ached to watch him. "Scott won't hate you," he said gently. "But you should probably go."

Stiles turned reddened eyes back to him. "It's my fault!" Barely a whisper, but full of conviction.

"Stiles, you wouldn't do any of those things. You wouldn't hurt people or set bombs or—"

"Sic ninjas on my friends?"

"That too."

Stiles shook his head and looked away, unconvinced.

Anger coiled in Derek's chest. "You were _used_. Okay? Against your will. And I—" His throat closed around the admission, sticking like tar.

Stiles peered at him through tear-flecked lashes, and for a moment their gazes connected with a rush of energy that left Derek raw.

"You know what that feels like," Stiles finished for him.

He nodded and swallowed over the lump. "You tried to stop him." Stiles shrugged. "Stiles, you tried to _kill_ yourself to stop him."

Another shrug. It fanned Derek's anger. "Don't do that," he growled. It earned him a startled look. "Don't wish you'd died instead."

"More people would be alive if I had. Allison would be."

Derek let his eyes flash blue as he restrained an outburst of frustration and pent terror. Allison, Aiden, and a bunch of strangers whose names Derek did not know. It was not a choice. He gave Stiles a look with too many meanings.

"You can't trade with the dead," he said, with the gravity of someone who knew.

Stiles stared at him, contemplating. Derek's expression softened.

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"You weren't planning on going?" Stiles sounded genuinely surprised.

Derek shrugged and took his turn studying the coffee table. "Wasn't sure I'd be too welcome at an Argent's funeral. But . . . I can talk to Chris, if you think it'll help."

After a moment of silence, he glanced up to find Stiles watching him, fighting both tears and a smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good."

Derek woke up as he swollen cheek slammed into the metal floor—the SUV going over rocky terrain. His body throbbed, though with less sharpness. _Stiles_. He jerked up and looked around the shaded interior, lit by a slant of sunlight through the back window. Empty. Empty . . . Good. Relief drained his energy away, and he rolled onto his back to change the pressure on his broken ribs. They should go to the funeral together. Stiles would regret it if he didn't go, even if he didn't think so.

The funeral was a week ago. Why was Stiles asking now . . . ?

He'd left early. Derek shouldn't have let him go.

Shouldn't have . . .

They nearly died a few hours before dawn. Stiles had taken back the wheel and was fueling himself on Pixy Stix and Red Bull. He'd rationed them out to sustain the high, but even so, sheer exhaustion could grind even the best chemical stimulants to dust under the weight of its certitude. His hands shook on the steering wheel, and he shifted restlessly in his seat, and yet . . . the distance between blinks grew longer. He snapped to attention to realize he hadn't been watching the road. And he really should be . . . watching the road.

Thank God for feeder roads.

Scott surged awake as the Jeep started bouncing over the median toward the local road next to I-10 and grabbed the steering wheel before they made it all the way across. He shouted. Stiles shouted. Lydia cursed them both and demanded they find some place to pull over and stop right then.

They pulled off at the next exit and slept in a Walmart parking lot.

Or tried to sleep, anyway. Stiles kept waking up with the concussion of a bad dream but no clear details. By late morning, Scott was ready to take the wheel, and they headed toward Tucson. Stiles sat in the back, nursing a headache and oppressive sense of doom. He stared out the window and tried to remember the dreams, but all he got were impressions of running, fear, and breathlessness, which were pretty much reasonable summations of the last year of his life.

He wondered if Derek was okay. What Kate was doing to him. If they'd be there in time.

"Is something wrong with your chest?" Lydia asked, her voice loud and shocking in the din of the car.

Stiles blinked and focused on her: turned around in the front seat staring at him. "What?"

She looked pointedly at his chest, and he glanced down to find the heel of one hand rubbing absently across his breastbone. He stopped and let it fall to his side.

"It's fine."

They both glanced at Scott for a read on whether that was a lie, but he just turned and gave them both an innocent, confused expression. Lydia looked back at Stiles and narrowed her eyes.

"Uh-huh." She swept him with an evaluative gaze, which he was pretty sure came up lacking. "Well, if you're done not having chest pains, I'd suggest we call Danny now if you want to talk to him. They have family stuff on Sunday. His mom's pretty strict about it."

It took Stiles a second to remember that Lydia, Jackson, and Danny must have been a pretty tight unit once upon a time. He wondered if they still talked.

"Yeah, okay. Got your laptop?"

"Charged." At least someone had remembered to bring a car adapter.

He checked in with Scott, just a short glance in the rearview mirror, before calling Danny.

Danny answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Stiles put him on speaker. "Heyyy, Danny." He exaggerated his smile.

"Stiles." Danny sounded mostly confused, which wasn't the worst place to start.

"And Lydia," Stiles continued. "And Scott."

They each chimed in.

"Hey guys," Danny replied, his suspicion starting to overtake his confusion.

"So, you remember that paper you wrote for Mr. Harris on telluric currents in Beacon Hills?" Stiles asked.

"I remember it disappearing from my backpack and showing up in my mailbox."

Lydia shot Stiles an incredulous look, and he flailed a little about how now was not the time and they were all a little busy back then. She rolled her eyes at him and leaned toward the phone.

"Do you think you could point us toward your sources?" she asked.

"Sources for which part?"

"The map," Stiles said. "How did you know where to draw the lines on the map?"

Danny grew silent on the other end of the phone. Stiles leaned closer. "Danny?"

"Is this some sort of werewolf thing?" Danny asked suddenly.

Stiles blinked, then lifted his head to stare at Lydia. She returned a wide-eyed, thunderstruck expression, and they both looked at Scott, who gaped.

Lydia recovered first. "A what thing?"

"Oh my God, it is, isn't it."

"You _know_?" Scott blurted.

Another pause from Danny. "Are you guys serious? I _dated_ one. Scott got good at lacrosse _overnight_. And you kinda talk about it. A lot. Loudly."

"B-but how come you never said anything?" Stiles gestured at the phone accusingly.

Danny's eye roll had a silence all its own. "What was I supposed to say?"

"I don't—I don't know!"

"Exactly.

A collective moment of silence fell. Stiles stared at Lydia, wondering if she fell under "werewolf thing." She stared at the phone as though seriously reevaluating her life choices.

Danny broke the silence.

"So, you guys wanted to make another map?"

Stiles nodded, then realized that wouldn't be enough. "Yeah. Same idea, different location."

"Well"—he sounded doubtful—"the thing is I didn't just find the map. The map is the summary of my research. I went out with meters and . . . crystals . . . and a few other things to take measurements. I mean, I could tell you how I started, but—"

"You were dealing with a localized area," Lydia concluded.

"One that I could pretty much drive around."

Stiles sighed loudly. "So what you're saying is that we can't build a map of an area we don't know."

Apology resonated in Danny's reply. "Not a very accurate one."

Scott spoke up. "Well how about an inaccurate one?"

Stiles stole a look at the back of his head. "Scott, what good is an inaccurate map?"

"More good than no map."

And that had a sort of logic. Stiles shrugged at Lydia. She nodded and shrugged back.

"Danny?"

"Well . . . you could start with the USGS geomagnetism maps? They're rough, but . . . maybe it'll help?"

"What was that you said about crystals?" Scott asked, arching to get his voice closer without taking his eyes off the road.

"Yeah, I . . . may not have been entirely scientific about that," Danny said, abashed.

Lydia frowned. "Meaning?"

"Meaning . . . supposedly some crystals resonate with the frequency of the currents. I figured if I could match up a crystal with a current, it'd tell me where it went."

Stiles looked impressed. "Did it?"

"Actually, yes. But you have to find the crystal. And you don't wanna know how much I spent at Wisteria."

Stiles scratched his cheek and peered at Lydia. "Anything else you can tell us?"

"Not really," Danny said. Someone in the background shouted his name, and he shouted something muffled back. "Look, guys, whatever this is, I—I'm not sure how much I can help. People keep . . . they keep _dying_. I kinda wanna live to see college."

"It's okay," Lydia told him, her voice a bit strained. "You've already been a big help. We, um. We're sorry about Ethan." She only just managed to squeak out his name.

Danny sighed, his voice quiet. "I'm sorry, too. About Aiden, I mean." He paused. "Look, I gotta go. Just . . . be safe."

Stiles nodded down at his phone. "Thanks, Danny." And he hung up.

Lydia was quiet for a moment and still, loss and sorrow hollowing out her eyes. Stiles touched her arm, and she focused on him, drew herself together enough to offer a perfunctory grin. She turned back around in her seat and got to work.

Stiles leaned forward and looked at Scott.

"What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think there's gotta be a better way than driving around with a pile of crystals."

Stiles's gaze dropped to the gear shift. Something small, like an autumn leaf, drifted down inside him. Hope dies a little at a time. "Not quite what I meant."

Scott nudged him with his elbow. "We'll find him. I promise. Whatever she's planning, we're going to stop her."

He picked at a fingernail. "Sound pretty sure of that."

Scott grinned and looked away from the road long enough to face him. "She's a bad guy." His grin broadened. "We always stop the bad guy."

Stiles took the wheel again, and Scott sat in the back, translating Lydia's descriptions into wide swaths of color across a map of the Southwest and northern Mexico. They ran out of things to talk about and music anyone wanted to listen to. When the silence got too maddening, Lydia streamed Pandora through her laptop until one of the boys complained. They bought bottled water by the case.

Arizona melted into New Mexico. Lordsburg was the only thing on the horizon besides red dirt hills.

Lydia texted the Sheriff to let him know their progress, and he called back to let them know his.

"That was a good catch on the ATM. Agent McCall got the records, and we were able to narrow it down with the timestamp on the video. We got one match to an account opened in Texas under the name Harriet Lawson. If this is an alias . . . the Argents really know what they're doing."

Stiles frowned but kept his eyes on the road. "What do you mean 'if'?"

John sighed loudly. "I mean that Agent McCall is sending people over to the address on Harriett's mortgage and I'll be surprised if they don't find a body."

"You think she killed an innocent person?" Scott asked.

The Sheriff hesitated. "I think it wouldn't be the first time."

Scott's expression darkened.

"Dad, we're just about at Lordsburg. Do the records show any transactions there?"

Papers riffled on the Beacon Hills end of the line. "Lordsburg . . . I see one ATM withdrawal at a Diamond Shamrock on Main St. for a hundred dollars."

Lydia squinted at Scott. "What would she need a hundred dollars for? They were already across the border."

Stiles pondered it for a second. "Dad, does it say what time?"

"Yeah. 10:30pm. Why?"

Stiles shrugged mostly to himself. "Some things you only do at night."

No one had a particularly good reply to that.

John cleared his throat. "McCall also asked the Mexican authorities to be on the lookout for a woman matching Kate's description. Don't know what good it will do, but they seemed pretty pissed that she killed a Mexican national. Also, Scott?"

"Yeah?" Scott leaned closer.

"Your father is under the impression that you and Stiles are on a camping trip. Try not to disabuse him of that notion."

Scott grinned. "I'll try."

"Your mother will cover for you as much as she can."

"You talked to her?"

The Sheriff huffed. "Couldn't send you on a camping trip with my son if I didn't."

Stiles smirked. "Thanks, Dad."

"Yeah." Sheriff Stilinski sighed again. "Please be careful."

They hung up.

Scott was silent for a moment, occupying the space between the front seats with heavy thoughts. Lydia raised an eyebrow at him.

"We're a day early," he said. "For Argent's money. We're a day early."

Lydia tensed and settled primly back in her seat. "It'll be fine."

Scott and Stiles both blinked at her.

"Fine? Lydia, how will it be fine, we need, like, several thousand dollars." Stiles kept his wrists on the steering wheel so he could gesture at the obvious.

She eyed him. "I have it."

Scott jerked. "You have several thousand dollars?"

She shrugged and turned slightly red. "Savings account. As long as his money goes through, no one will know."

The boys fell silent.

"So, you could have paid for this the whole time?" Stiles asked eventually.

Lydia drew a breath uneasily. "I . . . uh . . ."

"Didn't want to spend it on Derek," Stiles supplied for her, more sad than angry.

"I didn't say that! It's college money. To live off of. What would I tell my parents if I suddenly needed more?"

Cowed, Stiles glanced at her. "Sorry. I just—sorry."

She answered with a long look. "Just take us to a bank. We'll be fine."

Lordsburg, it turned out, was barely a trailer park on the map. A one horse town in an era disinterested in horses. Stiles had never felt actively sad for a collection of buildings before, but he found himself wanting to buy them a bucket of paint and a balloon. Scott and Lydia craned around, wide-eyed in distressed disbelief.

"Wow," Scott muttered.

Lydia watched a single story brown house squatting on a patch of desert pass by. "What do they _do _out here?"

Whatever the captains of industry had dreamed up for Middle-America, that dream surely died of heat stroke before it made it here.

The town had one bank, one fast food joint, two motels, and three gas stations. It was pretty much all you needed as far as rally points for illegal journeys were concerned, and Stiles was starting to suspect that Diego's coyote business really _was _the local industry.

Lydia made good on the bank withdrawal, although she had to speak to the bank manager to get them to release those kinds of funds. She couldn't tell him that he'd be seeing the same cash back in his vault almost immediately, but it assuaged some of the guilt at emptying them out. Everyone got a wad of their own for expenses.

"Now what?" Scott asked, shoving the money in his pocket. He kept his hand in there, resting his fingers against the bills.

They stood in a tight huddle next to the Jeep. Stiles lifted his head to look around for anyone watching.

"Now I think we check out the Diamond Shamrock. We know Kate was there on the trip up."

"But why not on the trip down?" Lydia asked.

"Maybe she was in too much of a hurry," Scott offered. "I mean, she's hiding an entire person."

Scott took shotgun, and Lydia called out directions—not that there were many. They rolled into the gas station with a slow crunch of sand. Stiles made the last minute decision to actually fill the tank while they were there and took the opportunity to look around. Lydia appeared at his side, gazing carefully at the buildings across the street.

"I'm sorry about before," Stiles said. He scratched a hand through his hair. "About the money. You wouldn't have any reason to spend it on this. On—"

"Him?" she cut in, eyeing him. "And you do?"

He tensed, chest pulsing with an ache. For a moment he concentrated on the gas pump in his hand, adjusting the pressure. "Feels like I do," he said quietly.

She touched his arm, and he gave her a weak smile. As he finished filling the car, he turned, and a sign across the street caught his eye.

"Hey." Stiles nudged Lydia and pointed.

_La Rosa_, the sign said. But more significantly in the window, a Budweiser sign.

"A bar," Lydia said.

"Perfect place for a celebration, right?"

Scott switched shirts in the KFC bathroom. He'd been wearing the same thing for two days, and two days of teenage boy sweat didn't strike him as something to inspire confidence in others. They'd discussed tactics over lunch and left for La Rosa just after dinner. Everything nefarious happens at night, after all.

Scott went in alone, opening his senses to the people around him. Scents of dust and sweat, tobacco and tequila inundated him, along with small whiffs of cologne and perfume. Not as much lust as some place like the Jungle, though. He wasn't sure a place like this could aspire to anything as passionate as that.

Heads turned in his direction as he made his way to the bar, but no one spoke. He felt their gazes sting his back and wished someone, somewhere, would start having a conversation. A country station pumped out music over a halfway decent stereo system, its bouncy rhythms a stark contrast to the people mechanically downing their drinks.

Scott aimed himself toward the bartender and let a bit of his werewolf power seep into his veins, radiating strength. Apex predator, unstoppable, dangerous, a force of nature. He leaned against the bar and waited while the bartender filled a glass and handed it to another customer. They both watched the man disappear with his prize.

"Gonna need to see some ID," the bartender said, not unkindly, just with enough threadbare patience that Scott got the impression he had to say that quite a bit.

"I'm not here for a drink," Scott replied.

That made the bartender snort a laugh. "Well drinks are the only thing we've got, so you must be in the wrong place."

Scott smiled at him a little. "Maybe. I'm looking for someone. This seemed like the best place to start."

The bartender looked at him steadily and waited.

"Diego," Scott said. Stiles had advised him to dole out information in small morsels and let the other person feel their way through the conversation. It was something his dad did in interrogations.

The man averted his eyes and picked up a clean glass to polish. "Can't help you." His heartbeat stuttered.

Scott hid a smile and narrowed his eyes. "Really. I was told Diego could help me with a bit of a family situation."

The bartender cut him an assessing look. "Kid, I don't know you or your situation—"

"But you _can_ help me with it."

Annoyance flashed over the man's features, and he set down the glass to face Scott fully. "I don't know who the fuck you been . . ." His words trailed off as Scott took the wad of cash out of his pocket and started peeling off twenties, and his gaze darted around the bar.

Five twenties sat in a neat fan on the bar top.

The bartender blinked at Scott and laughed. "Kid, this ain't the movies. If I say I don't know, I don't know."

Another lie.

"I'm not a cop," Scott said, insistent. "They don't hire cops at seventeen. I'm not trying to get you in trouble. I'm trying to save someone."

The bartender's cool countenance faltered.

Scott pressed. "Please. All I have is a name. They said he's good. That he never gets caught."

"Maybe he never gets caught because he doesn't talk to people he doesn't know."

So close. Scott could feel the information he wanted dangling in front of him and the predator in him took a leap. "He knows Severo."

The bartender's eyes dropped to the money on the table. "And so do you?"

Scott smirked. "Where do you think I got the name?"

"He send you?"

Cool victory spilled into Scott's body. "He gave me the name," he repeated.

The man met Scott's eyes and swiped up the bills. "Got somebody you miss down south?"

"Something like that," he allowed

The bartender quirked an eyebrow at him. "Stick around town," the man said. "If he's interested, he'll find you. I imagine."

Scott backed away from the bar a few steps before turning to leave.

The air outside struck shockingly cold against his skin as he emerged into the night. Stiles and Lydia instantly bounded to his sides.

"Well?"

"Anything?"

Scott looked between them both with a mixture of pride and doubt. "I think? The bartender said not to leave town and if Diego was interested, he'd find us."

Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet. "Good. This is good!"

They started walking.

Scott gave him a mollifying look. "We _think _it's good."

"Please, Scotty, a little faith, will you? A little something going our way here?"

They turned the corner to the parking lot behind the bar and slowed to a stop. Two men stood blocking the alley with their arms crossed and feet planted. Human eyes wouldn't have seen them until it was clearly too late. The dark-haired one had tattoos down his arms and shoulders like an ox. Yellow Ponytail almost looked like Good Cop standing next to him, all clean shaven and unmarked skin. Menace billowed out from them, and Scott threw his hands in front of Lydia and Stiles to press them back.

"Scott, what—"

"Go back," he whispered urgently.

Stiles spun in place.

"Uh, Scott?" Stiles said and swatted Scott's shoulder.

The three of them drew closer together, and Scott turned to see two additional men of equal size blocking their exit.

"Scott, buddy, what'd you do?"

"What? I bribed the bartender," he replied in a hurried whisper.

Stiles shot him a quick look, not willing to take his eyes off their assailants. "You took out the cash, didn't you."

It wasn't really a question.

"I"—Scott's stomach fell a little—"oh."

"Great. We're getting mugged." Stiles sidestepped so he was at Scott's back, and his pulse skyrocketed. "This is us getting mugged."

The two men Scott could see took swaggering steps forward, and Scott felt his anger rise. "We're not getting mugged."

Lydia made a sharp sound, clinging to Scott's arm, and hissed, "Maybe you should tell them that."

He glanced over at her and flashed his red eyes. "Maybe I will."

It happened between heartbeats. The men were swaggering forward, all wicked smiles and cracking knuckles, and then one of them made his move. He darted forward, reaching for Lydia, and Scott grabbed him by the neck and hurled him back. He turned, saw Stiles duck, and raced back, delivering punches in a blur.

The one with the black hair pulled a knife.

Scott came back around, blocking his path to Lydia, and knocked the blade from his hand leaving claw marks across his forearm. The man gaped at the sudden appearance of his own blood and cursed. He lunged. Scott slipped out of the way and grabbed his shirt, hurling him into the side of La Rosa.

"Run!" he shouted.

Stiles scrambled for Lydia, grabbed her hand, and tried to weave past Scott's first victim toward the car. Yellow Ponytail staggered to his feet in time to cut them off.

The two blocking the exit attacked from opposite sides. They managed a solid hit to Scott's stomach, and one grabbed his arms as though he could hold him open for another shot. Scott lifted both feet and kicked, sending one slamming back into a wall. He tossed his head back, hoping to collide with his attacker's nose.

The scream of pain suggested he got close enough.

Scott turned and grabbed the man by the throat.

"That's enough, wolf!" a deep voice called.

Scott froze, one fist raised in the air, panting. Then he and his attacker both turned their heads.

A man stood on the sidewalk just at the mouth of the alleyway. A long rifle barrel gleamed in the moonlight.

"They attacked _us_!" Scott shouted back.

"I know. But the chances of you killing them without meaning to are greater than them killing you." The man stepped out of the shadows and lifted his head so the light would show his face, round, weathered, Native American, Scott thought, though he was a poor judge.

Yellow Ponytail made a move toward Stiles, and the stranger squeezed off a quick shot, barely missing the guy's foot.

"That was your warning!" the stranger called. "I didn't miss."

Scott let the man he was holding go, and the guy shuffled back, grasping his throat as he coughed.

The stranger aimed his rifle at the mugger's chest. "I suggest you go."

With a placating wave, the man shuffled toward his friend and hustled him up to standing. They motioned at their friends and all disappeared back into the back door of La Rosa, groaning and cursing at each other.

Stiles and Lydia slowly made their way to Scott's side, careful of any sudden movements that might get them shot.

"How did you know?" Scott asked.

"That you're a werewolf?" The man huffed a dry laugh. "Couldn't keep your claws to yourself. And you move like one."

Scott dropped a foot back into a ready stance, the thrill of the fight still singing through him. "You're a hunter."

The man sighed and lowered his weapon. "Used to be."

"Retired?" Stiles offered.

The stranger smirked. "Just tired." He came a few steps closer and slung the barrel of his rifle behind his neck. "You mind telling me why a bunch of teenagers rolled into town looking for me none too quietly?"

Realization dawned. "Diego," Scott said and dropped his stance.

The man nodded. "Lacapa. And somehow I doubt Severo sent you to me."

Scott grinned sheepishly. "Technically, I never said he sent us. I said it's where we got your name."

"_I _got your name," Stiles clarified, waving a little. "That was me."

Diego grunted and turned on his heel. After a few steps, he looked back over his shoulder and gave them a questioning look.

Lydia responded first, straightening her shirt, squaring her shoulders, and starting after him.

Diego stopped at a pickup truck and stowed his rifle behind the seat. He turned and gave them all a calculating look. Stiles couldn't be sure what he was weighing, their wallets, intentions, maybe souls. Stiles looked back at him with a mix of determination and fear. This was their keystone. An ex-hunter, of all things.

"Hop in the truck," Lacapa said.

Lydia barked a sharp laugh. "That's not happening."

Stiles shifted to stand just behind her right shoulder, arms crossed. Scott flanked her on the other side.

The man's eyes crinkled at the corners. "We ain't talking out in the open."

"And we're not getting in the car with a stranger." She smiled at him.

He sucked his teeth and glanced around. "I'd take you to La Rosa, but I don't wanna deal with those shitheads again, and I'm sure you don't either."

"You could give us the address."

"Yeah. That'd be good faith on my part. What about on yours?"

Stiles was moving before he even thought about it. "I'll go."

"Stiles!" Scott growled his name, but Stiles waved him down.

"It's okay." He turned to Diego. "The address?"

"300 East B." He motioned to the passenger side door.

Stiles hesitated, his heart pounding. Scott's eyes bored into his as he read his fear, but he didn't try to stop him. Stiles nodded to his friends, and they hurried for the Jeep, leaving him to climb into the cab with their coyote.

He wiped his palms on his jeans and took in every detail of the truck's interior that he could. A feather hung from the rearview mirror, and Lacapa had a police scanner installed in the center console. Must be useful in his line of work.

"Put your seatbelt on," the man rumbled.

Stiles looked over at him slowly, then complied. They pulled away from the curb and left a cloud of dust. Stiles swallowed and tried to find a decent topic of conversation. _How about that sportball? Monotonous weather we're having._

"What made you stop being a hunter?" fell out of his mouth instead. He snapped his jaw shut and closed his eyes, cursing himself. The seconds of silence he counted grew heavy.

Lacapa blew out a breath as he made a turn. "It's a thankless way to live."

Surprised, Stiles turned to look at him, though he could only see a profile against the moonlit sky. He'd never quite framed the way the Argents lived that way. Dangerous, yes. Costly. "I guess it is," he admitted.

Diego grunted. "If you do it right, no one knows you're there. Do it wrong, you're dead. Either way, you're nothing."

Stiles turned back to watching the road ahead. "And you thought, I'll do something safe and high profile, like running illegals through border patrol?"

The man smirked. "Safe is relative."

And that was tough to argue.

They sat down in Diego Lacapa's simple living room: wooden floors, wooden coffee table, leather couch. He put the rifle back in a rack on the wall and set sweating glasses of iced tea down in front of each of them: Scott, then Stiles, then Lydia. Scott not-so-discreetly sniffed at his before taking the first drink. Diego watched but didn't react. Stiles shifted at the edge of his seat as Lacapa raked him with another scrutinizing gaze.

"Why don't you kids tell me why you're looking for me."

Stiles shrugged slightly. "Same reason as everyone else."

"I do seem to be popular these days." Diego smirked.

Lydia made a sound of agreement and cocked her head. "And fairly rich from it, I'd imagine."

He gave her a look that conceded the point.

Fingers lacing together, Stiles leaned forward. "A few days ago, maybe a week ago, you helped a group of hunters cross into the States. We want you to do the same for us."

Diego absorbed that, his eyes darting briefly to Scott, without changing his expression. "Coming back with something you shouldn't be?"

"If we do this right," Stiles replied.

Diego regarded him with a silence that felt a lot like one of Derek's, thoughtful and fraught. His brows drew together in a frown.

Stiles continued, voice steady and serious. "The woman that was traveling with them? She killed one of Severo's men and took someone I care about. I think whatever route you brought them up over, she's going to take back down, which means we need to cross just south of here."

Lacapa leaned a little closer, propping his elbow on one knee. "That woman was Kate Argent."

"I know."

Diego narrowed his eyes. "She killed a hunter?" Disbelief laced his words.

"Well," Lydia added with a smile and a shrug, "she's not exactly herself."

Lacapa sat back and regarded them all quietly. After a spell, he tipped his head to the side. "Who'd she take?"

Stiles ironed out his expression. "I'd rather not say."

He nodded at that then looked Stiles in the eye. "Are you prepared to kill to get them back?"

Stiles could feel Scott and Lydia both turn their eyes toward him. The shape Derek's confession had taken around his heart radiated a sharp pain, and he pictured for the briefest moment the look on Derek's face in the clinic.

He met Diego's gaze without flinching. "Yes."

That seemed to satisfy.

"Two thousand a person. Up front."

Stiles sat up straighter. "Two thousand a person, half now."

Lacapa slowly smiled. "You think we're bargaining?"

Stiles slowly smiled back, slipped on a bit of the fox's confidence. "I think you need a good reason to show up."

They stared at one another, the air growing thick with a tension that made Scott slip into a predator's posture. The movement caught Diego's attention; he blinked first. And the competition ended. He smirked with genuine amusement.

"You got balls, kid." He laughed a little. "You're gonna need 'em."

Stiles relaxed and exchanged looks with Scott, who nodded reassuringly. Lacapa disappeared into his kitchen again and came back with a notepad. He wrote a set of coordinates in small, prim letters followed by a phone number.

"Five hours after you call, I'll be at those coordinates," he said, handing Stiles the note. "Don't call unless you mean it. Don't be late."

Stiles passed the note to Lydia to memorize. She glanced at it and tucked it into her purse, then drew her hand back out holding a roll of cash.

"Now," she said. "About your fee."

The next day they crossed the border like tourists and made for the closest named place on the map: Ascensión.


	7. Chapter 7

Most of the time, Derek drifted some place between dream and waking. He laid on the bench and blinked into the dull gray light of his cage, not knowing or caring when consciousness slipped away. Was it days? It could have been days. His bones and cuts had healed, so days. The car slowed. The car sped up. Electricity kicked him in its constant, merciless way.

He tried not to think about it and found it difficult to remember.

By the gathering heat, he supposed it was midday.

They went over a bump, and his whole body rocked with the motion of the vehicle.

Rocked, rocked. Rocked to sleep . . .

The driver's side door squeaked open and then slammed.

Derek's eyes popped open, and he hurried to sit up. With his heart in his throat, he stared at the door and waited, the taste of blood and chemicals suddenly in his mouth. He started to sweat.

The door latch suddenly clunked, making him flinch. Then it swung open on angry hinges and let in a painful swath of sunlight. Derek shaded his eyes and inhaled the scent of mesquite and dirt and Kate.

She climbed in, wearing jeans and a pink tank top. It approximated cute. That was as close as she was ever likely to get. He couldn't guess what other people saw when they looked at her. He saw cruelty, a shining blade, a beauty that made him sick.

The stench of alcohol and stress clung to her, and even in the dim cabin, she looked drawn.

Derek shrank from her, pressing his back into the wall behind him as she crouched on the floor an arm's length away. She had a plastic bag in one hand. With calculating interest, she gauged his reaction, then rearranged herself to sit cross-legged—a non-threatening pose chosen on purpose.

Kate pulled a bottle of water from the bag and set it on the floor between them. She even leaned back to give him space.

Derek stared at it, his need suddenly staggeringly insistent. He swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy, and fought to keep from reaching for it. His fingers twitched with the impulse.

Amused, Kate made a show of picking up the bottle, uncapping it, and taking a drink. She set it back down, and Derek lunged for it, curling both hands around the bottle like a child. He drank the whole thing in a single go, which left him panting. He considered throwing the bottle back at her, but precious little good could come from a tantrum.

He set it back down carefully and waited.

Kate pulled something in wax paper out of her bag next. It smelled fried and sweet. She took a bite to prove its trustworthiness, then offered that as well.

So. Today was feed the beast day.

If he could have denied her out of spite, he would have, but Derek's stomach squirmed with emptiness, and he snatched the empanada from her hands. He tore it despite the bindings on his wrists, forcing himself to eat small bite-sized pieces and chew slowly. He stared at her intently, keyed to the slightest movement.

At length, Kate leaned back against the wall, watching him through slitted eyes.

"Do you know what she can do?" she asked.

He put a piece of fried dough in his mouth and savored the crush of baked apple against his tongue. Caring less would have cost him effort.

Kate nodded to herself and spoke to the empty space between them, her tone devoid of inflection. "They say La Loba wanders the desert gathering the bones of wolves. And when the skeleton's complete, she sings it a song that brings it to life." Kate flicked her eyes up and watched him for a reaction. "The wolf runs away, and it turns into a man. Or a woman." She shrugged lightly.

He swallowed the last of the empanada and reached into the bag she had left. He came back with a package of Twinkies that he had to rip open with his teeth.

Kate sat up straighter and caught his gaze. She looked wild, and it made him freeze. "She makes werewolves, Derek. Think about it!" She searched his eyes fervently. "She raises the dead." She spoke it like a shared prayer, as though this should set his heart aflame.

_Raises the dead_. That should mean something, but his thoughts slid around one another, not connecting. He put the piece of cake in his mouth and ate carefully, watching Kate's face. Her eyes gleamed with something he once took for ardor, now took for madness.

Kate sat back in disappointment when Derek failed to share the glee of her revelation.

"We were going to kill her," she said absently. "Araya, Severo. Kill the mother of wolves and hope her creations died with her."

Derek couldn't keep the scowl from his face. Of course that was the plan. Potential genocide. Anger shivered free in his gut and broke along his skin. He tore a piece of Twinkie off and ducked to eat it to cover his expression.

Kate shut her eyes for a moment and covered her mouth with her hand. "But then I got back and"—her laugh was brittle—"can you guess what I found?"

He reached into the bag for another cake while she wasn't looking.

"She was dead," Kate said. Her voice hardened on the last word, and she surged forward onto her knees, into his space. "My Allison! Dead!" Her shout rang through the metal housing with the force of the thing she had become. Breath heavy with tequila washed over him.

Startled, Derek jerked back from her anger, dropping the food, and fought to keep his face a mask. His eyes widened at her lengthening fangs, but she fought the transformation down and pulled back to give him space. His rabbiting pulse beat loudly in his ears, and he wondered if she could hear it the way a wolf would—wondered how much of himself he could not keep from giving away.

"She was seventeen, Derek." The words came softly aching. Kate sat back and put her hand to her mouth again. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the desert floor outside. "She didn't even get to live," Kate whispered, her eyes clouding with tears. She raked a hand through her long hair and gave up on pulling her fingers through a knot. Caught on the edge between laughing and crying, she made a frustrated noise and looked at him, shaking her head. "She may be the only thing I ever loved," she admitted, a raw look on her face.

Derek narrowed his eyes. Everything she said sounded like truth. She smelled like grief. And yet . . .

Kate stared at him, quivering with emotion. "La Loba can raise the dead, Derek. Do you understand?"

A chill went down his spine. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans, swallowed, and cautiously drew a breath to speak. "You want to turn your niece into a werewolf?" His disbelief could write sonnets.

Kate grinned sadly and held back her tears. "Better a live werewolf than a dead corpse." The last word cracked.

He snorted and shook his head. Convenient fucking logic.

Kate reached out and gathered the empty plastic bag.

"We can fix it," she said gently. "She didn't deserve to die."

He snorted again and glowered at the walls, faces of the dead flashing through his memory.

"She can be a teenager again. Beautiful."

He refused to look.

"Think of Scott."

He tried not to.

"Think of _Chris_."

He cut his gaze to Kate and her pleading eyes so perfect and dark he almost believed her.

"He's lost everyone," she whispered, as though it broke her heart.

He had thought of Chris. Pulled him drunk and ragged from the edge of misery. Witnessed his grief with quiet understanding. He'd feared who Chris might become on the other side of the storm and resolved to usher him through, if only to gather the pieces as they fell and press them back into place.

That, if anything, nearly tipped him over.

Kate rocked forward to get on her knees, and Derek shied away on instinct. She hovered.

"Help me."

He struggled to remember to breathe under the assault of her proximity. Every nerve too frayed.

_Go away go away go away go away_.

He stared at the wall nearest his face, breaths coming in short gasps, and waited.

Kate sighed and turned away.

"Just think about it," she said as she got out, then slammed the back door shut.

The tension and breath went out of him. Bring Allison back. That's why he was here. To restore to Kate what she most valued.

He thought of Chris, of Scott, of Lydia standing casket-side and Stiles sunken with guilt. They deserve to have her back.

Not Kate.

Never Kate.

He dropped his head against the metal wall, hard enough to sting.

_"__¿Has visto este camión?"_ Lydia held out her phone with the photo of Kate's truck.

A young boy concentrated on the image and shook his head. He waved some friends playing soccer in the street over, and Lydia showed the image to each of them in turn, all with the same response.

_"__¿O una mujer rubia, muy hermosa?"_ Boys may be more likely to notice a beautiful woman than an old car.

Again they indicated no, and Lydia thanked them for their time.

She sighed in frustration and turned her face toward a slight breeze blowing in from the west. Wind chimes tinkled sweetly, and the children she'd been talking to called to each other and laughed. Ascensión wasn't a big place, but still too big to know where to start. She wondered, not for the first time, why she'd volunteered herself for this.

That was a lie. Every time she spied Stiles rubbing at his chest like he could massage out an ache, she knew why she'd come. He looked haunted at the best of times ever since . . . ever since. He would've come by himself, lost in a foreign language, and there wasn't a single one of them who needed to be that sort of alone. A laughing little terror had scrabbled at her throat when she thought of letting him out of her sight, like he might vanish. Or worse, that she'd feel him dying over the edge of the horizon—powerless to pull him back.

They kept slipping away.

As she poured out her grief at Allison's graveside, she'd made her a promise. To be better, to be worth it, to _listen_, to protect others, to fight and be fierce and keep anyone else from dashing themselves to pieces for her sake. She dropped prayerful tears to the earth and performed an inner alchemy to be made of finer strength.

For just a moment, Lydia let the west wind be Aiden's fingers on her cheek and a warm laugh in her ear. For just a moment, she let her heart grow heavy and looked at the dust-covered shops and dirt streets of poverty with a strange sort of sympathy.

But only for a moment.

She'd left the boys at a bodega to buy supplies and returned to find them stacking their haul on the counter. Everything looked remarkably unhealthy. Scott turned to her scathing expression.

"We didn't know what to get you," he said.

"That is not true," Stiles announced from behind him and leaned back into view. "_I _know for a fact you love Sno Balls. Scott didn't believe me."

She smiled at him, because she did, in fact. The orange ones, especially, but they only came out on Halloween. Lydia waved them both off.

"It's fine." Shopping for herself happened to be a specialty. "Meet you in the car?"

While the boys left, Lydia went to the refrigerator case for a soda and perused the snack aisles. She grabbed some plantain chips and asked the clerk at the register for a _torta, por favor_.

The man smiled at her Spanish. "Your accent's very good," he said in English.

Lydia tipped her head and offered a genuine smile in return. "Thanks." She glanced at the door, where Scott and Stiles had just left. "Did my friends happen to ask you about a car?"

By the questioning look on the man's face, she took that as a no. Lydia pulled out her phone and brought up the picture of the Land Rover.

"You didn't see this come through here, did you?"

His eyes narrowed. "Me? No. But you should talk to my cousin. He runs the Pemex, and last night . . . this car was the only thing he talked about. Javier, he loves cars like this." He motioned with his hands. "Big. _Sí?_ He goes out to pump the gas, and while it's going, he looks around at the tires. He looks at the, um . . ." He frowned. _"Las ballestas."_

_Suspension._

Lydia nodded to keep him talking.

"_Sí._ And then _la mujer_, she jumps out of the car and shouts at him. What he is doing and mind his own business. He says, 'Jorge she looked loca. I did nothing!' He was afraid of her, so he let her finish the gas and just took the money, even though that is not allowed. All night I hear this story." Jorge scoffed, shaking his head, and rang her up.

Lydia put some extra money on the counter after she got her change.

"And where is the gas station?" she asked, her voice going high as she tried to hide her excitement.

Jorge gave her directions to a location on the south end of town a few blocks east. As she turned to leave, she nearly tripped over a case of bottles on the floor. They rattled against one another with a musical jangle, and Jorge rushed around the counter to see if she was okay. He cursed his lazy assistant, while Lydia apologized for her uncharacteristic clumsiness. How had she not seen a giant thing right next to her? She thanked him again for his help and trotted out the door to find Scott and Stiles waiting in the Jeep.

"You're smiling, why are you smiling?" Stiles asked as she climbed in.

"Because the man at the gas station saw the truck," she said, and grinned with pride at their stunned faces.

"How did—"

She cut Scott off with a wink and waved at Stiles with an onward flick of the wrist. "Take the third left."

She guided them to the station and motioned for Scott to follow her while Stiles stayed with the Jeep. The station had a small store attached, and Lydia figured the manager would let other people run around working pump in the heat.

"Javier?" she said to the man behind the counter.

Scott leaned closer. "You know his name?" he muttered in disbelief.

She flashed him a coy smile and turned her attention back to the man they'd come to see.

_"Sí,"_ the manager replied warily.

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder and offered her sweetest smile as she showed him the picture on her phone.

"Did you see this car yesterday?" she asked in Spanish.

_"Sí . . ."_

Apparently Javier wasn't as talkative as his cousin.

"And a woman was driving?"

"Sí. Loca. All I did was look."

Scott hovered at Lydia's shoulder trying to follow their conversation. "Does he know where she went?"

She relayed the question, and the manager shrugged. "Not really. Straight down the road out of town. There's only one."

Lydia translated for Scott, and he nodded.

"South."

"South," she confirmed.

Bells on the door jingled as another customer entered the cramped space, and Lydia turned to stare at it with a tickle of déjà vu. Scott nudged her on the arm, and she blinked at him.

"What?"

"Ask him. If Kate said anything else."

She gave the bell above the door another look before tearing her eyes away. "Did she say anything else? Anything strange?"

Javier frowned and shrugged. "Not after the yelling." He looked sorry that he didn't have more to say.

Lydia thanked him for his time and left a tip on the counter as they shuffled out to make space for real customers.

Stiles turned the car south. They passed through the commercial section into the residential, and Lydia watched identical houses with their identical bicycles out front slip by. A bright flash of sunlight made her squint. Something hung from one of the porches, a piece of glass art. It's broken shards twisted in the breeze and sent blinding glints in all directions. As they passed, she heard the shards clinking against one another.

It rushed down her spine.

The chimes on the street, the bottles, the bell.

The same sound.

"Stop the car."

"What?" Stiles looked over.

"Stiles, turn around!" She grabbed his arm, and he slammed on the brakes in alarm.

"Lydia, what—"

"I heard something." She twisted in her seat, stomach strung tight with anticipation. "We have to go back."

He didn't even question it, just checked for on-coming traffic—ha!—and swung the Jeep around the other way.

"The house with the glass art. Do you see it?" She pointed at the bright flashes of light.

"Yeah," Stiles breathed, eyeing the house as they got closer.

Scott leaned forward from the back seat. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know. I just kept hearing it."

Stiles stopped at what approximated for a curb, and for a second they all just sat, staring out the windows at a little white house with a wooden porch and blue sea-glass wind chime flashing in the breeze. Lydia drew a deep breath and got out first. She waited until she felt them both at her sides before stepping up onto the porch, then stopped at the sound of Scott's voice.

"Uh, guys?"

They turned and watched Scott pressing his hands against a barrier that arced yellow as it resisted him. Stiles glanced down at the boards beneath their feet.

"Mountain ash," he said, and looked up. "I don't know if that's good or bad."

"That depends on why you're here," a voice with the sonorous depth of a cello spoke in unaccented English.

They whirled as a man Stiles's height stepped out. He had dark skin, short-cropped black hair, and a tank top left little of his thick frame to the imagination. He crossed his heavily muscled arms, and Lydia's gaze slid over the full sleeve tattoos. He right depicted Christian symbols: crosses, fish, stained glass with the Our Lady of Guadalupe. The left, a menagerie. She could pick out an owl, a snake, an eagle, a wolf, and some sort of cat.

He blinked at them slowly, and Lydia could not look away from his one blue eye, on the animal side. He swung his hand out, forcing them to make a path, and marched down to Scott, sizing him up.

"Show me the color of your eyes."

Scott lifted an eyebrow but complied, flashing red.

The man grunted and crossed his arms again.

"Did I pass your test?" Scott asked.

The man ignored the comment. "Where's your pack, alpha?"

Scott's spine grew a little straighter. "Am I gonna need them?"

Lydia narrowed her eyes at all the posturing and watched for an opening.

"Where're you from, wolf?"

"Beacon Hills, California." Scott lifted his chin.

"Ahh. Hales." The man frowned at him. "You don't look like a Hale."

"I was bitten by one."

Scott let the implication of that hang in the air.

"How'd you find me?"

Perfect.

"I heard your wind chimes," Lydia said, still standing a few steps up on the porch.

The man's arms dropped as he turned to look at her. He cut a glance at the arrangement of blue glass shards hanging from the eaves and stepped up toward her with palpable curiosity.

"What'd they sound like?"

What kind of question was that? "Wind chimes," she replied, heavy on the sarcasm.

The man moved close enough to grab a hanging shard and moved it lightly so it knocked against the other pieces. It sounded like glass, but that was all, just a monotone plink. Lydia frowned.

"But . . ."

"What did it sound like?" he asked again.

She stared at the blue, irregular shapes and then at him in shock. "It um . . ." She imitated three distinct tones. It was meaningful enough that the man nodded and started for the front door.

"You two can come in," he said over his shoulder. He left Scott outside.

The interior of the house bore the same motif as the man's tattoos: heavy Christian symbology, animals skins and skulls everywhere. And candles. An inordinate number of candles.

Lydia gasped. "You're a brujo. Aren't you." And suddenly all those nights of True Blood didn't seem like such a waste.

He turned. "I am."

Stiles slid up close. "Brujo, what's a brujo?" he whispered.

"Like a shaman," she whispered back.

"So like a druid?"

The brujo snorted, his big shoulders lifting in silent laughter. He swept a hand toward some chairs in the living room but continued to a table against the wall. "My name's Nerón." He lifted a bottle of tequila and poured himself some before turning to face them. He eyed Lydia warily. "Are you here to tell me I'm going to die?"

She blinked, her bright red lips falling open in surprise.

None of them sat.

"No." She crossed her arms. "I'm here because we're looking for someone and you might be able to help."

Nerón raised his eyebrows and stayed quiet, tipping back his drink.

"A balam kidnapped a werewolf and is looking for La Loba." The brujo's eyes widened slightly in recognition. Lydia went on. "We think she'll be following telluric currents. But, we're not from around here, so we're not too sure where those might be."

Nerón nodded and set down his glass. "And you think I can help you."

Lydia looked at him steadily. "I just followed the sound."

"Can you? Help us?" Stiles asked.

The brujo sighed and came closer. "What do you know about magic?"

Stiles shrugged at him. "You have to believe."

He arched an eyebrow and snorted in amusement. "That's it?" He shook his head. "Deaton's pussy magic. It's not all about will, kid. You want to do _real _magic, it requires sacrifice."

Stiles's face grew hard. "I have sacrificed."

"Yeah?" Nerón came a step closer still.

"I was dead for half a day," Stiles told him.

Nerón got right up in his face studying him with his mismatched eyes and crowding him with his superior mass. Stiles stared right back, unflinching. Nerón grunted in satisfaction.

"You were gone longer than that," he purred, and moved away.

A bit of the color drained from Stiles's face, but he made no reply.

Nerón sat in the middle of his worn couch balancing his fingertips against each other as they hung between his spread knees. Lydia stole a glance at Stiles, but he was too focused on Nerón to notice. She crossed her arms over her chest.

The brujo breathed like a laboring ox and then looked up. "The currents are the lifeblood of the earth," he said gravely. "And it will cost you blood to know them."

"How much blood?" Stiles asked.

"Stiles!"

The muscles in Stiles's jaw twitched as he ignored Lydia's reproving glare and stared at Nerón. "How much?"

He sounded sure and calm, and Lydia found herself bolstered by his confidence. She turned a critical, impatient eye to their shaman. "Well?"

Nerón flicked his unnerving gaze her way, then back to Stiles. "From you, none," he said as he stood. "From her?" He shrugged with an elaborate ripple of muscle. "As much as required."

Stiles's eyes flashed. "Her, why her?"

_Good question._

Nerón grinned. "Because Santa Muerte is the Lady of the Dead." His gaze turned thoughtful. "They'll know one another, I think."

Lydia lifted her chin minutely in acknowledgment of her burden. "Stiles, get the map."

"Lydia, no, you—"

A sharp, commanding look. "Get the map."

He hesitated, gripping his hands at his sides, before nodding and jogging back outside.

They heard Scott's voice raised in anger. Then Stiles shouting.

He thundered back into the room, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. Without a word, he thrust the map into Lydia's hands and stood just behind her shoulder, simmering.

Lydia let his agitation slide off and regarded Nerón coolly. "And you're just going to help us out of the goodness of your heart?"

The man laughed—a hearty, alluring sound.

"Chica, I'm gonna do this because you're gonna pay me. And then I'm gonna tell Alan he owes me a favor for watching his wolves."

Shamans, it appeared, networked.

Nerón led them to the back of the house and into a small room with an altar along the northern wall. Lydia's steps slowed as she passed the threshold and a small thrill flitted over her skin. She heard Stiles suck a heavy breath and found it somehow comforting that he too felt a strangeness here. Nerón drew the blinds over the windows, bathing the room in shadow, and motioned for Stiles to close the door.

Lydia found her eyes drawn to the white statue at the center of the altar surrounded by heavy roses. Santa Muerte held a scythe in one hand and a crystal ball in the other. Her flowing robes covered everything but her hands, her face, and the tips of her bony toes. Lydia moved closer but resisted the urge to reach out and touch.

"You are new to her, so we should cleanse this space and make an introduction."

Lydia took a bowl from the brujo's hands and set it carefully at Santisima's feet.

"Your offering bowl," he said, then held out a shot glass for her to take. "This because the Lady loves tequila."

She held the glass with both hands as Nerón retrieved a bottle from under the altar and filled the glass to the brim.

"Set it down."

She did, cautious not to spill.

He brought out a basket of red corn and nodded toward it that she would take a piece. Lydia set it down next to the bowl. He handed her a crystal goblet.

"Go get water from the kitchen," he said.

She and Stiles exchanged inscrutable looks. He stood at the far side of the room, his limbs crossed to hold his fidgeting in check. She offered him a small smile, hoping it would do.

She came back and set the full glass next to the tequila, while Stiles pushed the door back closed with a soft click. Everything seemed to echo.

Nerón slid into her space, drawing her attention to his shocking eyes. He held up a twist of tobacco and set it in the bowl. "Now, I want you to light the tobacco and blow the smoke over Santa Muerte. Then walk to each corner of the room and do the same. Will bad thoughts and bad energy away. This is safe. This is home." She nodded at him. "Bring the bowl back and take a sip of tequila. Then fill your mouth with it and spray it on her."

Lydia's brows drew together. She couldn't speak above a whisper. "You want me to spit on your altar?"

The brujo chuckled. "Tequila is sacred. It will consecrate the space."

From the back, Stiles huffed. "Totally telling my dad that."

Lydia shot him a quelling glare; he lifted his fingers in surrender. Then she looked up at Nerón.

"Is that it?"

"Then I'll ask her to come. Then you'll ask her for her help."

Lydia nodded, swallowing, and took a lighter from his hand. She lit the tobacco in the bowl and gave it a second to smolder and build it up smoke. A deep inhale, then she exhaled gently, wafting the smoke over the figure. She took the bowl in both hands and walked the room clockwise, careful to breathe so she wouldn't cough and sully the rite.

Back at the altar, she set the bowl down, thin tendrils of grey smoke spindling toward Santisima's skeletal face. Next, the tequila.

The sip went down easily, mellow and smooth. Good time and money went into the making of this offering. Lydia wondered if it was better than what Nerón drank himself. She took the rest of the shot into her mouth as directed and sprayed Santa Muerte with it, the guilt of trespassing coloring her cheeks.

She licked the tequila from her lips and eyed Nerón as she stepped aside.

He placed a small pad on the floor and kneeled. He crossed himself and spoke with a rich, full voice, letting the prayer rise and fall with the cadence of a song. _"Padre eterno conoces mi necesidad y pena hoy te suplico permitas que la Santa Muertesea mi abogada y mi ayuda en esta necesidad. Mostrarles la sangre de la tierra con la sangre de esta mujer."_

Eternal father who knows my need and sorrow, now I pray let Santa Muerte be my petitioner and by aid in this necessity. Show them the blood of the earth with the blood of this woman.

_"Si el favor que te pido es para mayor honra y gloria tuya; concedeme pronta respuesta, solamente pido lo que en justicia sabes puedo merecer, reconozco que soy pecador y que te he fallado, Sin embargo como el Santo Job, te proclamo como mi Dios y Señor, seguro de que tu caridad me alcanzara hasta el find de mis dias."_

If the favor I ask is for the greater honor and glory yours, grant me quick response, only ask what justice deems I deserve, I acknowledge that I am a sinner and I failed, however as the Holy Job, I proclaim you as my Lord and God, sure that your charity will reach me until the end of my days.

_"Santo Dios, Santa Muerte, Santa Inmortal, Librame de todo mal. Amen."_

Holy God, Santa Muerte, Holy Immortal, free me from all evil.

Lydia followed his words, a strange hum building behind the sound of his voice, like harmonies on sympathetic strings. The air grew thick with the acrid scent of tobacco and cloying perfume of rose. His invocation complete, Nerón stood and moved aside. His blue eye flashed, and the patterns on his arms seemed more fluid than they had a moment before. He set a blue candle on the altar and lit it, then handed her the map. She spread it on the floor at Santisima's feet, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed the edges flat. Then he handed her another shot of tequila.

That, too, went down smooth. She wondered, vaguely, if it was ritual or courage.

Nerón held up a small knife. "Do you want me to?" He nodded toward her right hand.

Fear sparked down her spine, but she shook her head and held out her left hand for the blade.

"Make a cut and spread the blood around your palm with the flat of the knife," Nerón said quietly. He still sounded like a chorus all his own, and it took effort not to let her gaze linger.

Lydia nodded and made the cut.

She barely felt it. Her skin separated under so fine a blade that she stared in shock when the blood began to well and blinked before she recalled what to do next.

Spread the blood, like peanut butter. Like it was not hers. Her hands shook a little at the startling red of it.

She turned to look at the crisp, white statue. "Santa Muerte," she whispered. Then held her closed fist over the map and pumped to make the blood come.

The world started to tilt. A wave of dizziness made her drop the blade, and she heard someone call her name, though it was muffled, indistinct. Blood dripped from her hand.

Unbearable heat burst across her skin, and she prickled with the sense of being watched. A presence coalesced just behind her shoulder, the chill of a cold hand pressed at the nape of her neck. She stared at Santa Muerte through the glow of the candle flame.

The flame filled her vision and grew blue around the edges.

She could not, could not get enough air.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Her blood fell as time drew out into slow motion. It rolled along the surface like mercury until it found its target and sank in, joining the paper fibers. The rivers of blood began to flow. _Taptap. Taptap. _Deep red ribbons spidered out revealing the gentle arc of one telluric current, the sudden bend of another. The blood drew itself through where lines connected. And then Lydia's blood balled along the surface again. She squeezed her fist harder and moved it to other parts of the map. The drops ran sideways.

Her vision blurred, and Lydia started to shake from the effort to be brave, to let her blood run.

She felt someone at her side, beyond her periphery, stroking her hair. They whispered calming thing in a mother's loving tone. It brought her panic back just enough to open her hand and squeeze out a few more drops.

Goosebumps rippled across her arms. She would not cry.

The blue aura of the flame tasted like copper, as she trembled, trembled.

Her hearing went dark. The world was just a single tone drowning out everything. So loud she couldn't think to be scared. So loud she couldn't see. And with the ringing, surrendered to the darkness.

She opened her eyes to find herself in a new room, a bedroom. Stiles squeezed one hand, and she frowned slowly at him, suddenly aware of a body-wide ache. Nerón sat on the other side of the bed, dabbing at the cut on her hand. She gasped at the sting, then looked at Stiles. He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his amber eyes. Such lovely eyes.

He let out a startled laugh. "Thanks."

Lydia frowned again and tried to remember. She'd passed out.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. _I did it wrong_.

"Sorry? Lydia, you were amazing. Okay?" He squeezed her hand again.

She smiled weakly at him. _Amazing._

Nerón pressed gauze to her palm and started wrapping the dressing. "I commune with Santisima every day, chica. I have never felt her presence as strongly as I just did." He snipped a piece of tape and applied it gently, then looked her in the eye. "If there comes a day she loves me half as much as that for having introduced you, I will die a happy man."

Lydia stared at him. A shiver ran through her when he smoothed another piece of tape to her palm. "H—" She swallowed, her throat too dry. "How much do we owe you?"

Nerón stopped and looked at them both, shaking his head. "That's when I was bringing her to you. You brought her to me."

Lydia got the sense that the way he dressed her wound was more than simple courtesy. He moved with a deliberate gentleness that bordered on veneration. She turned to Stiles.

"The map?"

He let go of her hand and picked it up off the bedside table. "Worked. There are currents all over the place. One not far south of here."

Lydia nodded, instantly regretting it. She tried to smile through the dizzy headache anyway and let out a weak, helpless sound.

"Hey"—Stiles put a hand on her shoulder—"maybe you should stay here." He glanced at Nerón, who ducked his head in a nod. "Scott and I will find a place to stay."

Lydia scowled at him. "But we're already behind, we have to . . ." She trailed off as she read the look on his face. "What?"

"What? Lydia you just got drop kicked by a goddess."

"But Derek—"

Stiles ducked his head and curled his hands into his lap. She wasn't telling him anything he hadn't already thought. He was choosing, she realized. In that moment, he was choosing her.

Her voice came out an awed whisper. "Why?"

He avoided her gaze. "Minimizing risk. I can't—I can't worry about both of you. I—" He tapped on his chest. "I don't have the room."

She reached for his hand this time and squished his fingers in her grip. "Get some place decent." He grinned. "And take a shower."

Kate returned that night on a storm front of lust and grief-streaked rage. Lightening quick, she thrust him, unprepared, against the wall, cracking his skull against strong steel, and slammed them together in a brutal kiss. Terror blasted icy through him, lighting a chain reaction he could not control.

Derek froze.

He should have fought back, thrown her off. But he couldn't move, breathe.

_Beatbeatbeatbeat._

His focus narrowed to the sound of his own heart and the animal scent of her.

Her hand slid up one leg; his body started going numb.

Kate panted and rocked closer, pressing her lips harder, but he did not kiss back. Cold panic held him pinned and vulnerable.

With a roar of frustration, Kate shoved them apart, and her eyes flashed green. She slapped him, snapping his head to the side, and left gouges on his cheek that weeped blood. He flinched away and made a rough, startled sound, but she grabbed his chin and wrenched him so he had to look at her.

"Kiss me like you mean it." Her eyes glittered dangerously. She dug her nails into his skin for emphasis.

Derek trembled despite himself and fought for air against his tightened chest and throat. He knew what she wanted, what she liked. He swallowed, and his throat clicked.

He could do this. One step at a time.

His face burned. The pressure of tears built behind his eyes.

"Derek." Her voice low. A warning.

He closed his eyes and drifted forward with parted lips. Kate let up on the arm barred across his chest and dove down to meet him. He opened to her, sucked at her lower lip, licked into her vodka mouth.

It felt like slime on his skin: self-loathing and sin.

He pressed his burning eyes shut harder and enacted the mechanics of passion. His fingers grazed her cheeks as much as the manacles would allow. He slid his tongue into her mouth and licked, ignoring the cold tendrils in his gut. She answered by straddling him and nipping at his lips until they stung.

Derek sucked a breath, and Kate dropped her forehead to his, panting. She put a hand on the back if his neck and squeezed gently. His whole body shivered with fear, and he turned his face away.

Kate hummed a pleased sound and let him go. She patted his other cheek, "Good boy," and her words bore the rounded shape of a smile.

As quickly as she had come, she left.

When the door slammed, Derek's control broke. The numbness washed out of him, replaced by violent shaking. He wheezed, trying to catch his breath, and tasted iron. Time elongated. He pulled at the bonds on his wrists with the sharp panic of a caged thing and whimpered. None of these like him, his reactions all wrong.

"It's okay," Stiles said softly, and Derek curled instinctively toward the sound of his voice.

_No. No no. _Stiles had _seen_.

A sob cracked his ribs and he leaned into Stiles's shoulder just to rest his head, just to—

"It's okay," Stiles repeated and drew him in. "You're okay."

One arm looped around his back, urging him closer. He buried his face in Stiles's neck, shuddering out tears like the weakling he has always been. Pathetic, unable to fight back. He tried to make the tears stop and gritted his teeth. He raged when they leaked out anyway. Everything hurt like an open wound, too cold, too hot, and he _shookshookshook_ to his core.

Stiles drew gentle fingers through his hair.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You did what you had to do. You made her go away."

Derek breathed in stops and starts and wrapped his fingers in Stiles's shirt because it was the closest thing to holding on.

His body hollowed, leaving a too thin shell, easily torn.

"Shh . . ." Stroke. "Shh . . ." Stroke.

More slow rhythmic charms traced along his scalp, smoothing the tremors away. He inhaled the safe, familiar scent that Stiles carried with him, concentrated as it was at the pulse point on his neck. The stench of Kate's lust dissipated into memory under the force of it.

Guilt closed a slow fist around his stomach as he became aware of his body, of being held, of _taking _comfort. He pressed on Stiles's chest to pull himself free, and Stiles's fingers stopped, resting carded in his hair. He said Derek's name with cautious worry.

"Y-you don't have to—" he mumbled.

Stiles exhaled. "Don't be an idiot." And resumed the small circles quickly unwinding the tension Derek's soul.

Derek folded his resistance up small and sank back down into the welcoming warmth of another, so rare and delicate a thing. He didn't speak to keep from startling the moment to ash. But he knew also one had to be worthy of precious things.

At the blurring edge of sleep, he shifted his head. "This isn't real, is it," he whispered.

Stiles's fingers paused, but only for a second. And then he shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Drowsiness pulled him, "No," and he slept.


	8. Chapter 8

"Why're we here, again?" Derek glanced up at Stiles over the edge of his menu.

Stiles gave him a judgmental look, like he was counting his brain cells.

"Because, dude, this place is pretty new and these are the best burgers in town." He went back studying the expansive list of options.

_That—well, okay._

Derek narrowed his eyes. "Why am _I_ here?"

Sighing, Stiles set his menu on the table. "Well, I can't exactly bring my dad. I mean, this place is insane! Artery-clogging, orgasm-inducing—"

"If you say hot beef injection, I'm leaving."

Stiles snapped his mouth shut, his cheeks flushing bright red.

Derek smirked to himself and went back to trying to decide what to have. It _was_ a little insane. Fried goat cheese, actual black truffles. "What are you getting?" he asked.

"Are you kidding? BBQ Bacon Bonanza with a side of curly fries," Stiles answered immediately. "We're splitting the fries so we can have dessert."

Derek lowered the menu. "Dessert?" As in, splitting a single dessert?

Stiles grinned at him like an idiot and waggled his eyebrows. "You'll thank me."

They staggered back to the loft, groaning, and Stiles aimed himself toward Derek's bed like a frequent visitor. He fell onto it, moaning. Unexpected heat flooded Derek's body, pooling low at the sight: Stiles throwing himself onto his bed and sprawling boneless, looking pleased and sleepy.

Derek moved to join him—where else should he go?—but laid down with carefully gauged space between them. He thought of Stiles's foot tapping against his at the burger joint and something stirred in his chest, an ember of the kind he frequently let die.

"That was _so good_!" Stiles said with a wanton moan Derek felt in his spine.

"I feel ill." How was anyone supposed to each that much food? But dessert . . . yeah, was worth it.

Stiles rolled his head to the side to peer at him and then reached out and patted Derek's stomach. "But hey, at least you have werewolf metabolism."

His heart jumped at the casual contact. Derek stared down at the place where Stiles's hand had briefly been, still feeling the heat of it, and then over at Stiles's amused face, a frisson of affection lighting through him.

"What about you?" he managed to say.

Stiles scoffed and went back to watching the ceiling. "The unattractive don't have to care."

Derek scowled at him, and Stiles turned to the heat of his silence.

"Isn't this where you're supposed to say—" He stopped himself when Derek's scowl turned alarmed. "What?"

A sensation of doubt and panic washed through Derek's core as he looked Stiles up and down, then scanned around the loft.

"Derek?" Stiles's voice tightened.

"I don't remember driving home," Derek told him. He tried to recall it, them getting back in the truck. Or the Jeep. Which car did they take? His breath quickened. "I-I don't even remember eating."

He stared at Stiles as an icicle snapped free inside, then grabbed his wrist and held his hand up.

"Derek, what—"

Trembling, Derek tapped their fingertips together, counting.

Six.

Six . . .

A dream.

His eyes fell shut, heart cracking a little under the pressure.

"Derek?" Stiles sounded panicked now, too.

"Nothing," he said, and forced a smile. "It's nothing."

Sometimes he could flip the coin of fear and come out lashing. It always cost him: a strike from the taser and a prodigious beating. She liked it when he fought for the inevitability of his failure. Not out of strength or skill, simply exploitable weakness, which he had in many shades and grew to appreciate to their depths.

She came at varied times with only the sound of her door for warning.

Kate crawled into the cabin with feline grace and did not bring the collar with her. Tendrils of panic curled down Derek's spine. With one hard pull on the shackle chains, she brought him thudding to the floor, and Derek's breath punched out of him.

He felt the cold shaft of the baton against his throat as Kate climbed his body. She ground her hips against his thighs, then his pelvis—a sinuous motion of strength, of domination. _Fuck_._ Nonononono._ He squirmed as liquid fear poured into his gut.

She shifted, showing him her new face, and pressed the baton harder in a dare. He shut his eyes as cold sweat gathered at his back.

Her free hand slid down his side, searching, teasing, taking. _Stop_. And then she dipped long fingers into his inner thigh. He clamped down, screaming inside, and tried to pull away, heart racing. Shoved at her shoulder with mere human strength as he started to shake.

His stomach twisted.

She press her palm to his groin instead, and he felt himself hollow.

Without looking, he could feel her coming closer. She took a deep breath, rocking her hips. Her breath ghosted over the shell of his ear.

"God, you smell so good," she purred.

His nostrils flared, fighting every inborn response to strike out.

She gripped a little and rubbed at his jeans, generating friction.

_Stop . . ._

Then she popped the button. Undid the zipper.

He shook his head, panting desperately and twisting his hips to squirm away.

She shoved him down and closed her hand around him anyway.

Derek bucked with a whimpered grunt, straining. Shame and anger burst a bubble behind his eyes. _Please . . . please._ He was going to be sick.

She pulled, slow and strong, and he could not, could _not_ beat biology any more than he could stop the waning moon. He felt himself hardening in her hand, flushing with new humiliation, and bit the insides of his lips to keep the sob at the back of his throat. The mortified tears at the edges of his eyes said it might have been better, taking the pain of the taser over failing this completely.

Kate made a pleased sound into his ear. "I always knew a little bit of you liked it."

The knot in his stomach twisted hard as he shed more pieces of his worth. He _didn't_, but his body had responded. So maybe . . . maybe that's how broken he was. He tried to be still. Invisible and still. No one would know. No one.

Kate pressed the taser down painfully hard, cutting off his air, and brought her lips close to his own.

"Howl, Derek," she said. "That's it. That's all I want. Call her here, and this all ends. Just howl."

He grimaced with a small shake of his head.

She made an amused sound very near his face, though he did not open his eyes to see, and tightened her grip once before letting go.

"Sometimes," she said, letting up on the baton, "you're more fun than you realize."

Kate retreated, trailing her hand down his leg. As quickly as she had come, she was gone.

Derek released a shuddering breath and beat his manacled hands against his forehead after the door shut. Maybe he should have fought. He should have fought.

In the dim light, there was no one to count his tears as he struggled to do up his zipper with trembling hands.

Scott held Lydia's map like it had insulted his mother.

"Rip that and she'll eat your liver," Stiles told him.

Scott took a long slow breath, then relaxed his fingers. "You shouldn't have let her do it."

Stiles veered his eyes from the road. "_Let_ her? Scott, what'd you want me to do?"

"An-y-thing. She could've died!"

That was a little dramatic.

"It wasn't that much blood," Stiles replied, making the turn for Nerón's house.

"But she was so sick we left her there overnight?"

Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That wasn't cause of the blood."

"Right." Scott shook his head. "Divine event."

He hit the brakes too hard coming into the driveway, throwing them both against their seatbelts and back, and turned on Scott angrily.

"You seriously think I'd make that up?"

"I seriously think we shouldn't trust strange men who build their houses out of ash wood."

_Oh. Ohhh ho ho. That's what this is about._ "You're mad because we left you outside." Scott rolled his eyes. "Oh . . . so then you're mad because Nerón doesn't trust werewolves."

Scott's shoulders tensed. "I liked it better when I was mad because you left me outside," he grumbled.

"Look, maybe he's had a lot of run-ins. I don't know. The point is Lydia's fine and we have a map to follow. All wins in my book."

Scott's scowl deepened and he gestured at the small house in front of them. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't reach you?"

Stiles shrugged and let his hands drop from the wheel. "I dunno, dude. Maybe you're not. I mean, we're fine. I did mention that, right?" Somehow that didn't seem to make Scott any happier. He just sank into grumpy silence while they waited for Lydia to come out.

When she finally emerged, she not only looked showered and rested, she had food.

"Offerings," she said simply as she got in. It only took her a second to read the tension in the air. "What?"

"Nothing," Stiles replied, too flat and deadpan to be believed.

She hmphed. "Well your nothing is ruining my morning, so eat and give me my map."

They swapped. Stiles mostly ate fruit because he could pop grapes while driving. Scott got the huevos rancheros, which smelled delicious, so that wasn't even fair.

The first telluric current stretched from Nuevos Cases Grandes to Benito Juarez. Lydia described it as "the scenic route," which in Mexico meant 8 hours of mesquite and ocotillo with one particularly thrilling wild boar sighting. Stiles switched off with Scott a few hours in, and the next time they switched back, Scott declared he had a plan. He was going to ride on the roof so he could get a better view because Kate probably wasn't going to be parked on the side of the road given the vehicle she was driving. Plus he had a better chance of catching her scent that way.

Stiles got the distinct impression that whatever Kate's scent was, it was some heretofore unknown level of awful. And that was coming from a guy who regularly spent time in a boys' locker room.

After the switch, Lydia sat up front to dole out directions. Sometimes, while her finger traced over the marks on the map, she got a distant, serious look on her face. She dismissed his first attempts to talk about it, so he let it go. If she wanted to talk, she'd talk.

Scott car-surfed the rest of the way to town.

Kate returned as night fell. They had traveled some, by the constant vibration of the tires on unpaved road. This time she didn't wait, didn't bother with the theater of making him put the collar on himself. She tased him, leashed him, and hauled him out into the glowing night that smelled of rock and cactus. He rolled in the dirt, reeling from the aftershocks, while his body went mad.

Fear like he had never felt pulverized his bones.

He flashed to her hands, squeezing him, violating him. Hot breath, cold laugh.

He shifted, clawed his way to standing, and ran. To the end of the leash, to the end of the earth. Death. Death lived here and ate him alive and sucked on his body and would not let him be.

The collar dug into his neck. He breathed black blue spinning stars and his mouth filled with copper terror.

Swords. Swords everywhere.

And her.

Rage spilled like blood and sweat as he scratched gouges in his neck to get the collar free.

None of it under his control, none of it on purpose. An animal with blurry vision.

Cut off by a strike of power. Falling, falling.

His healing overtook the burning of the taser and eventually he could coordinate his limbs, though his brain twisted in his head with high, insistent panic. As he stood, quaking, he flashed his eyes and tried to remember where he was. Kate narrowed hers.

"Well that was dramatic."

He flushed with shame.

"Howl."

"Go to hell."

She yanked on the leash, making him stumble forward.

"Howl!"

Never. Maybe this was the hill he would die on, this thing she could not _make _him do. No scream or agonized moan could equal a werewolf's howl to its pack.

He glowered and pressed his lips shut.

Kate cocked her hip and shook her head wearily. His daily torture was, apparently, draining.

"Fine."

She hit the taser again, and Derek saw white. He arched hard as he hit the ground and opened his eyes to see her closing in.

"This shirt, by the way? Filthy."

It was, stiffened with his dried blood.

She kicked him over onto his stomach and ripped Stiles's shirt from his back. Pain rippled down his arms as he struggled to get them under himself. His legs jerked uselessly. Another hard thrust from her boot, and he was looking at the sky. He arched until he thought his spine would snap, feeling exposed in the cold night air. The difference that so thin a piece of fabric could have was shocking.

Kate crouched and felt her way across his bare chest, admiring. He made a guttural sound like it hurt but couldn't stop her, and that made her smile. She circled one finger around a nipple lightly. His panic kicked.

"You used to like this," she said softly.

The urge to vomit hit him hard, and he managed to clench his hands.

She moved lower, running her fingers along the waistband of his jeans. _No. Enough! Enough . . ._ He wheezed, _keened_, and tried to kick away.

"I remember all the things you like . . ."

"Don't . . ." he rasped, a sob, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

She eyed his fly, his taut muscles, didn't bother looking him in the eye. "Give me what I want."

Thoughts swirled cloudy in his head. A howl. Yes, a howl. He could—he could do that. Something nagging told him he shouldn't.

Kate stood and stared down at him, the fire of violence extinguishing in her eyes. "You'll wear down eventually," she said.

Just as he got back control of his body, she hit him with another shock and wrestled him back into the truck through sheer strength. She replaced the manacles and left him twitching on the floor. He shook long beyond the effects of the taser. Weariness gripped him, a deep pain in his body like being crushed.

Eventually, he heard breathing, and Derek crawled forward and rested his head on Stiles's lap, sinking into the warmth of him. Stiles's fingers wound into his hair, easing some of the stress away.

"I don't think I can do this," he muttered.

For a moment, the caresses stopped. "Don't say things like that," Stiles told him. "You can't say things like that."

Derek shifted to get himself closer and bury his face in Stiles's stomach. He felt him bend and press a kiss to the top of his head.

"Please hold on," Stiles whispered.

"It hurts."

"I know." The words broken.

Stiles continued to pet his hair, his cheek, feathersoft but anchoring. At length he said, "Maybe you should give her what she wants."

Derek rolled onto his back so he could look up at him in surprise. "What?"

Stiles brushed the hair back from his forehead and frowned, unsure. "It's better than her killing you when she realizes you won't break."

Such confidence. Such—

Tears came to the corners of his eyes. "I am breaking."

More gentle touches down his beard. "Then give her what she wants. Maybe La Loba isn't the only one listening."

Maybe. Or maybe he'd surrender the last piece of himself she hadn't already taken. Maybe the last thing in Pandora's box wasn't hope but resistance.

He knew what Stiles wanted to hear but wouldn't make a promise he wouldn't keep. Heart heavy, Derek turned his face into Stiles's palm, nuzzling, and fell asleep to his ministrations.

No alarms. No adrenaline shocks to the system. Waking came gently. A subtle shift of perception heralded by nothing more than his internal clock.

Derek stretched, hitting something soft but solid, and slowly realized he was on his couch. Sleep-warm, he turned his face to the room and inhaled, blinking everything into focus. He caught Stiles's scent and a second later registered a heartbeat that told him he was not alone.

The warm golden light of spring streamed in through the windows. With all the dust, it looked like the hand of God reaching in and touching Stiles's shoulders. He sat at the big table, concentrating and silent. Derek sat up and watched him bouncing one knee and biting at his nails. The way he sat cast his face in shadow against the midday sun.

"Sorry, I guess I fell asleep," Derek said, murmuring so as not to break whatever sacred calm he had woken into.

Stiles's knee stopped, and he looked up with a smile tugging at his lips. "Hey . . . It's your apartment," he said, sounding amused, "you can sleep if you want to, dude."

He could, though he heard his mother's voice chastising him for being rude. _"Even if you were raised by wolves." _Derek scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching, and got up to see what had Stiles so entranced. He found him with two books and a Word doc open.

Stiles flicked his gaze up from the novel in his hand. "Trying to pass German," he said, waving the book around.

"Not going well?"

A shrug.

"You want some help?"

Stiles looked at him again with surprise. "You speak German?"

"Ja. Ich kann viele Sprachen," he said casually.

Stiles's jaw dropped a little.

The sight of his pink, parted lips did dangerous things to Derek's heart, and he tore his gaze away before he was caught openly staring. He cleared his throat.

"So, is that a yes?"

Stiles startled from some staring of his own. "Uh, yeah—yes! Yes. Please. I promised my dad good grades this year."

Derek quirked an eyebrow at him. "I thought you always got good grades."

The look Stiles gave him turned shy, a quick smile from under long lashes, as though he wasn't used to compliments. The sunlight hit his eyes just so; they looked radiant amber. For a moment, Derek forgot how to breathe.

He came around the table to take a seat and put his hands briefly on Stiles's shoulders just to say sit. Stay. It'll be fine. To say what only touch can in a language without layers. It may not always be true, but it is unmistakable in meaning. He let one hand skim the muscles of Stiles's upper back as he continued past to the second chair.

Perhaps that was too much. But . . .

A not-so-secret smile settled on the boy's mouth, and Derek could not regret it. He smiled back.

"So. The assignment?"

"Right. Yes." Stiles waved the book again. "We're supposed to translate a page of this and try to express what it means, not just what it says."

Derek held out his hand for the book.

The words . . . slipped away from him as his eyes scanned the page. He frowned, a slight panic fluttering in his stomach, and tried again. But the ink was liquid, flowing and reforming across the paper in patterns that made no sense.

He swallowed hard and handed the book back, fighting a tremble in his jaw.

"Why don't you read it, and I'll help when you need it."

Something in his voice might have given him away, by Stiles's suspicious look. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Do you want help or not?"

"Yes! Jesus, I was just asking . . ."

Derek sighed. "Sorry."

Stiles peered at him and leaned closer, eyes wide. "Was that—was that an _apology_?"

"Don't push it." He tried not to smile.

Stiles's grin turned dopey, then his whole expression softened as he pulled his chair closer.

The scrape of the chair along the floor was the squeal of the brakes as they came to a stop. Derek lifted his head from the cool metal floor and gazed around.

Darkness. Solitude.

His head ached.

He sighed.

Fucking werewolves.

Fucking selfish—

Fucking _men_!

Kate's fangs lengthened as she threw open the door to the first dive she happened to find as she stalked through town. Jiménez didn't have much to offer. But her demands were not many. She managed to keep her eyes from flashing, but only barely, and tongued the tips of her fangs. She pressed to feel the sharp spark of pain, the filling taste of blood, even if it was her own.

There exists in the universe only one bar, a Platonic ideal, and every pourhouse and cantina in the world is just a portal getting you back there. Every permutation smells the same. Tobacco smoke, the wheat of beer, the blush of alcohol, the mingled odors of mostly men, hot, wanting, weeping. Whatever their state of personal despair. Over what? Over _love_?

Over the need to put their dicks some place and rut, and for three minutes convince themselves that orgasms are power and they the blood of kings.

Pathetic.

Kate aimed herself for the bar, sliding around chairs and tables with a subtle shift of her hips. She could feel attention draw her way. Their hearts sped up. Their pores leaked pheromones. That was power. A kind she had only just started teaching Allison to use.

The ball of grief in her belly shattered after the second shot, and its shrapnel tore out gouges that the mescal could not fill. She gave it a valiant effort.

_Allison _. . .

Good and strong and deadly. Chris had raised a warrior and kept her in a cage. Kate had done her best to set her free. They were going to be sisters, partners. She was going to show her the monsters beyond werewolves, the things worse and dark. The ones that preyed on children. They were going to burn a swath through the West, cauterize the inhuman disease, and preside over the beds of men.

So many things.

They were going to do so many things . . .

She tapped on the shot glasses in front of her and eyed the bartender. He gave her a look but filled another round.

Benefits of being a balam: you could hold your alcohol.

Hindrance in being a balam: you could hold your fucking alcohol.

She downed the shots in rapid succession, each one burning more than the last. That's why her eyes stung. The cheap mezcal. And why her stomach hurt. And her shoulders ached. And she lived with a scream on her tongue and a need so deep she did not have a name for the place that yearned.

This was drowning. She hadn't taken a full breath since following Chris from the morgue. Her ribcage ached if she tried. Something foreign, like tears, clamped down on her throat. _Her _Allison.

One day. She gave herself one day to cry and make it ugly, to look over old photos and quiver with memories. Then she spent the next day in the woods tearing out a cougar's jugular. When that was not enough, she eviscerated the rest. Something, someone had to _pay_. The will to live scrabbles inside every animated thing, a prime directive. Defense of family had become hers. And Allison was the only true family she had, the only one that had never turned traitor.

She tapped the shot glasses again.

"Señora . . ."

Kate lifted her cold gaze to the bartender and put a $1000 peso bill in front of him. She glared, daring him to refuse it. Hoping he would.

Refuse it. Take this too.

A man pressed up to the bar next to her and let out a low whistle. "That's a lot of mezcal."

She didn't look over. "Maybe for you."

The shot burned as it went down, and she started to feel a buzz. The stranger leaned closer.

"You want a good time, I got better ways."

Kate turned on him then, pressing into his space with a predator's forceful intent. "You wouldn't like my idea of a good time," she purred, showing teeth.

Whatever instincts flow in humans still, he got in touch with his and stumbled back. She could hear his fear and resisted the urge to pounce.

No one else tried their luck. A pity.

She drank out the rest of her cash and got up to leave, as empty as the bottle she'd left on the bar. But drunk. There was that. The world spun a little, making her stagger and knock shoulders with someone.

_"Cuidado!"_ he grumbled.

Kate stopped and turned on her heel, a rush of anger flowing through her limbs. "What did you say?"

_"Cui-da-do,"_ the man pronounced, slowly like she was an idiot.

Fury lit a fire in her chest. "When I walk, you get out of my way." She slid closer.

_"Vete a la mierda."_

Pure joy broke into her haze, and she landed a punch to the man's face that laid him flat.

Turned out, he had friends.

Many, many friends.

The cuts across her body hurt with an uncomplicated pain, and she laughed, with tears, as she faced them, all of them, who could not know and did not care.


	9. Chapter 9

Hot water sluiced down Stiles's neck and body, washing away a day of dust and sweat. They'd continued south to Ciudad Madera and spent the day hiking through woods and the lower Sierra Madres. He'd tried to keep his spirits up, to tell himself that they were getting closer, even if this current was a dud it was a check off the list. In a way, even failing was a victory.

So he told himself, while Derek got farther away and degrees closer to dead.

He'd stopped the Jeep in a dried riverbed and gotten out in a flurry of panic and images he couldn't get out of his head. Anxiety worked like that: conjuring could-bes with such clarity that it _felt_ real. He'd cycled through finding Derek dead of a wolfsbane bullet, black veins covering his body. Impaled through the heart. Shot in the head. Or the worst, _the worst_, still breathing enough that when they found him Stiles could watch him die.

He'd thrown himself from the driver's seat to save the embarrassment of Lydia watching him tear up from his own stupid imagination. Scott had jumped down from the roof and said all the right things to keep him from spiralling into a real attack.

Sometimes, Scott felt more than an arm's length away, and Stiles felt the press of guilt for having made him come. Not that Scott had complained. He hadn't. But they were different about it. Stiles could feel himself being different about it, agitated and urgent.

He set aside thinking about what that might mean.

In the shower, Stiles turned to let the hot water run down his back. What he wouldn't give for a massaging showerhead. Six days of driving had his body in knots.

Dark circles had started to form under his eyes. Not that he was trying to sleep less. He just . . . couldn't.

When the water started to run cold, he shut it off and toweled down, getting into his PJs before leaving the bathroom. The three of them were sharing one room to conserve money. Allison's money. Guilt stripped him bare and locked the door when he thought of it.

Scott flicked off the TV as he came out, like he felt bad doing something normal in Stiles's presence.

Whatever vibes he was putting out were seriously askew if Scott was walking on eggshells. It put the whole world off-kilter.

"It's okay, man. You can unwind." He motioned to the TV as he sat on the bed they were sharing.

Scott glanced over, quietly concerned. For a moment he looked like he was going to ask something, then shrugged and dropped the remote on the side table.

"Nah. It's all in Spanish anyway. Lydia—" He stopped himself because she was already asleep.

They both grinned at her, and then Scott flipped off the light.

"Try to sleep, okay?" Scott said quietly.

"What? I have."

"No you haven't. I know—" He paused and sighed. Tried again. "It's okay if you don't want to talk to me about it." Only he sounded so disappointed that Stiles couldn't fathom that definition of okay. "But you look exhausted. So just . . . try, okay?"

Stiles laid down, his pillow on top of the motel pillow, and turned to Scott, their eyes meeting in the darkness. Worry chewed at his insides. "I'm not hiding anything."

A slight smile. "I didn't say you were."

Scott yawned and shifted around to get comfortable. Ever since they were little, Scott could fall asleep in five seconds flat, leaving Stiles awake and staring at the ceiling, waiting for the turbine in his brain to spin down. He looked out the window at the waning moon, but nothing seemed to spin down.

It is a universal truth that you can be too exhausted to sleep—and that it sucks.

Stiles rubbed at the aching spot in his chest and got up, drifting to the chair next to the window. His eyes burned as he stared out at the night sky and hugged a pillow under his chin. "Hold on," he whispered to the moon. "We're coming, I promise."

Just as dawn streaked pink and yellow across the sky, he nodded off, and woke to the sound of Lydia returning with food and coffee. Stiles scrubbed at his sandpaper eyes and lurched up to standing. His back and shoulders ached from more than a night in a chair. Coffee sounded good, but even as he stared at the sandwich Lydia had placed in his hand, he couldn't recall the appeal of food.

He ate mechanically, and only because she glared him into it.

As they finished packing, Stiles's phone rang.

"Dad?" he said, gathering Scott and Lydia with a glance.

"Son, I got some news you need to hear. Agent McCall got a report from Mexican authorities that they arrested a woman matching Kate's description two nights ago in a town called Jiménez. She beat up a bar full of locals."

Stiles flailed at Lydia as she grabbed her map.

"Southeast," she reported. "There's a north-south line in the desert not too far."

Anxious energy coursed through Stiles's body and wiped away the fatigue. "We gotta go. Dad, thank you!"

"Yeah, yeah. Be careful!" the Sheriff called.

Stiles hung up and grabbed Scott by the shoulders just to shake him, too full of delight, relief, _something_ to stay still. Scott smiled back, laughing.

"Okay, well, let's not stick around here."

Halfway to the car, Stiles shoved his keys at Scott. "Please tell me you can drive, cause I think I'm getting permanent dents in my ass."

Scott smirked and took the keys.

"Anything?" Stiles asked.

He couldn't stop asking. They'd made it to Jiménez two hours ago and so far nothing. He couldn't have said what he'd expected. The truck to be waiting by the welcome sign, a big blinky arrow pointing to its location. He'd expected . . . something. Derek, that's what he expected. And end to the driving and the worrying and the barely being able to sleep.

Instead he got more squat, dirty buildings and tiny alleyways and _fuck! _he was on his last string of patience.

He tapped his fingers against Scott's headrest in anxious arhythm and scanned his side of the street.

Something flat and white slipped across his vision.

"Stop! Stop, I think I see—" He launched out of the Jeep before it stopped moving and ran down a sidestreet, hope surging from his belly and splashing through his throat. Behind a brown van. White SUV.

White . . . Jeep.

He wound to a stop, heart still beating rapidly, and sagged. He braced against his thighs as the surge of hope rolled out, threatening to drag him down in the undertow.

"Stiles?" Scott called from the car.

He pushed himself up to standing and turned back.

The disappointment was too raw to let him speak. He shook his head at Scott as he neared the car and slung himself back inside. Lydia turned to look at him.

"It's not that big a town. We'll find him."

He nodded automatically.

"Stiles," she said more forcefully, making him meet her gaze. "We're going to find him. I promise."

He nodded again, with slightly more faith, and Scott started driving. He tried to keep himself in check, to keep from exploding with hope at the slightest possibility and dying a little more when they were wrong.

He tried. He did not always succeed.

Metal screamed and broke under Scott's hand as he forced the lock on the back on the truck and hauled the door open.

Stiles flew in, heart racing. The cabin smelled like piss. "Derek?"

Derek stared at him from the far end of the low bench he sat on. He was barechested, which suggested only terrible things.

"Derek, c'mon, we gotta go."

Derek's expression fell, and Stiles felt his pounding heart plummet.

"We can't. You know that," Derek said, turning away to face the opposite wall in resignation.

_What?_

"What do you mean we can't. Why not?"

Derek sighed wearily and held up his hands attached to manacles. "Because you can't break the power box and I can't break these. We've been over this," he muttered.

Stiles shuffled in closer to get a better look. He traced a cable from the restraints to a box on the wall.

"Power box," he repeated Derek's words. His eyes flew wide with horror. "Are you being electrocuted? Like, now? Right now?"

Derek gave him a confused look but nodded slightly.

"Jesus. Okay." He sat on the bench next to him to make room. "Scott! Get in here!"

"Scott?" Derek echoed, sounding even more confused than he looked.

Scott bounded into the small cab and Derek sucked a shocked breath. He cowered into Stiles's side—_cowered_—as Scott's eyes flashed red and he tore the box on the wall to pieces. Stiles stared as Derek watched every move Scott made, a cold sensation crawling over his skin. He put a hand on Derek's shoulder as he lifted the manacles toward Scott.

"Break these." He pointed at the shackles. "Those too."

Scott nodded and ripped the simple padlocks from both with barely any effort. "Good?"

"Yeah, good, go." Stiles waved him out.

Hands shaking, he undid the buckles on Derek's wrists revealing red, blistered skin. Derek . . . Derek didn't move. That wasn't accurate. Derek trembled but made no motions toward escape.

"Hey." He tried to catch his eye, but Derek's gaze wandered from the open door to his own hands and finally up to Stiles's face. He looked . . . awed and disbelieving.

Suddenly he grabbed Stiles by the wrist and held his hand up.

"Hey, what—"

Derek laid their hands together, palm to palm, his fingers unsteady. He tapped out counting to five, his breaths coming shorter with each one. For a second Derek didn't blink, then he turned wide, glassy to Stiles's own.

"You're real." His voice cracked over whispered words.

Swallowing hard, Stiles nodded. "Yeah. I'm real. You, uh, you ready to get out of here?"

Derek nodded, the dazed look still on his face.

Stiles took him by the arm, avoiding the blistered skin, and tugged him out. Could he walk? He didn't know if he could walk. God, he didn't know _anything_. He looked pale and thin.

"C'mon!" Scott called, waving.

Lydia ran down from her lookout point up the street and made for the passenger side.

Derek could run, it turned out.

"Go go go," Stiles muttered, shoving his werewolf ass into the back seat but trying to be nice about it. He glanced around once at the parking lot they'd found the truck in and then hurled himself in, too.

"Okay, go, go!" Stiles shouted. He blew out a labored breath and raked a hand through his hair, then started to laugh. It was the hysterical, glad to be alive sort of giggle that spoke volumes of relief.

It withered on his lips when he turned to look at Derek, who sat unnaturally straight, digging his hands into the seat cushion. His gaze flickered everywhere.

"Hey." Stiles touched the backs of his fingers to Derek's bicep to get his attention.

Derek gave him a sharp, uneasy look and all his focus. For once in his life, he didn't know what to say.

It struck him suddenly how shirtless Derek happened to be. _Exposed_ was the word he was looking for. Stiles turned and dug around in their bags in the back. He produced one of Derek's gray shirts that he'd always thought looked particularly comfy.

Unsure, Derek cautiously let go of the seat and took it from him.

"That's real too," Stiles told him.

Derek met his eyes briefly and then pulled the shirt on. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers for a second, a weak grin touching his lips and something soft reaching his eyes, and then he crumbled. Whatever internal artifice he had gave out, and he leaned onto Stiles's shoulder, pressed his forehead against it, and slung an arm across his middle. He didn't cry, but he did start to shake, terrible tremors like hypothermia. There wasn't time between the initial touch and this for Stiles to process how awkward it might be or question what he should do.

He acted—reacted. Adjusted so he could pull Derek in closer and hold him easily. The beard rubbing against his neck tickled. He felt Derek's whole body expand with an inhale and knew on some level it was a werewolf thing. The tremors continued. He touched Derek's hair, uncertain, and felt him relax in response.

"How is he?" Scott asked.

Derek pressed into his shoulder and turned farther away, like . . . like he was afraid.

"Still shaking. Like a lot," Stiles said to Scott. He glanced over and found Lydia turned around in her seat watching them. Even she looked worried. "Scott, I think we should stop as soon as we can. I think he needs to rest."

Derek said nothing on his own behalf.

"Hey." Stiles pulled back a little until he could see Derek's whole face. "Are you . . . I don't wanna sound like an idiot, but are you afraid of Scott?" he whispered.

Derek's gazed dropped and he frowned, embarrassment coloring his face. "I already told you."

Stiles glanced at Lydia, but she shook her head.

"Okay. Well, can you tell me again?"

Derek shifted to glance in Scott's direction. "Not now," he said, hoarse and mindful that Lydia was watching.

Derek extricated himself, hunched like he was ashamed, and leaned back against the seat while still keeping himself plastered to Stiles's side. The tension in Stiles's gut wound tighter as he watched Derek eye everything and tremble.

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay," he said, hushed and gentle in Derek's ear.

Derek shot him a pained, terrified look—not at all what he was going for—and snatched up his hand. They did the counting thing again, with the fingertips. This time Stiles tapped him back and mouthed the numbers. He cut a glance at Lydia. They could have been bugs under her microscope.

Four . . .

Five . . .

Derek shuddered out a breath and dropped his head to his hands. "I'm sorry . . ."

_For what? _"It's okay." When Derek drew in on himself, he looked so . . . small. Stiles lifted a hand and placed it tentatively over the tattoo on his back. He didn't know if that would be all right.

Derek exhaled.

It seemed to be.

Stiles's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he dug it out with his free hand.

A message from Lydia. He looked up, cocking an eyebrow at her. She indicated the phone.

_Maladaptive Daydreaming._

_When people experience extremely traumatic situations, they imagine themselves somewhere else. With someone they can trust._

He read her messages twice. _Imagine themselves with someone they can trust. "We can't. You know that." "I already told you."_ The realization struck Stiles's soul like a gong. He felt it in the pit of his stomach and tingling on his tongue. He looked at Lydia as his fingers moved absently on Derek's back, and her expression read mostly of pity. He nodded, more to say that he agreed with her assessment than that he knew what it was supposed to mean, what obligations came with being the object of someone's sanctuary daydream.

Derek followed Stiles into the motel room in a haze. He probably walked. He could have floated for all he felt connected to the earth. Stiles gave him something to carry, a bag he'd packed for him with his own clothes. He should've known how to walk into a motel room, how to put his things down, but Stiles kept helping. A quick touch here, another there, guiding. They were on the road for . . . a time. He lost track and couldn't keep straight reality from dream. He couldn't remember if he'd done the check.

He had to check. He had to _know_. Stiles let him and was still there when he only got to five.

Scott and Stiles traded spare room keys just in case, and then he and Lydia went searching for food.

Derek watched Stiles set down his bag and unpack a few things. He was cognizant enough at the moment to feel his own awkwardness and sat down on the end of the nearest bed. The world was wrong. Muffled in cotton and distant. A normal person would be happy to be rescued. He . . . he hadn't even said thank you. You were supposed to say thank you.

"Stiles." He tried to shake off the dullness and sound like himself.

Stiles paused and looked at him. "Yeah?"

"I . . . you came."

Stiles's face brightened into a smile. "'Course."

"Thanks."

He wondered if he sounded sincere. Stiles looked like he understood. He looked a lot of things. Worried, uneasy, like he needed to sleep.

Stiles brought over a towel and held it out. "You may not know this, but you look like hell. Might wanna take a shower."

He took the towel automatically and did as he was told.

Red and brown water ran off him into the drain. Hell might not have been far off. He let the water do its work and repeated to himself that this was real. Here and now. No more dreams. Though they were nice dreams . . .

It helped, the heat and the water. He shifted, sighing into the freedom of it, and let the spray touch his second skin with shivering sensation.

Afterward, he toweled off and switched into the sweats Stiles had brought with him. He'd stopped at the loft before leaving Beacon Hills. That was either incredibly touching or a pointless diversion. Derek kicked at the muddy, bloody jeans on the floor. His heart went soft. Touching.

He emerged to find Stiles sitting on the foot of the bed already changed, with a tired smile on his face. He smiled back before catching himself. This was real. This wasn't _his_ Stiles.

The one on the bed patted the space next to him and scooted over to make room. Derek's throat went dry; one hand moved with a slight tremor. He walked as though the floor might open up beneath him and sat as though the mattress would burn. Stiles watched him carefully for a moment, then scanned the cheap carpet.

"I, um . . . I just wanted you to know that you can tell me, if you want to." He lifted his gaze, and their eyes met. "You don't have to, but . . . you know, I'll listen."

All the breath rushed from Derek's lungs, and he had to look away. He dug a nail across one palm and wrung his hands absently.

"I . . . I know I didn't tell you about Scott. I was"—he lifted one shoulder—"confused before."

Stiles mirrored his hunched pose. "Do you want to tell me now?"

_Yes. No. _"It's stupid." Stiles let him have his silence while he gathered himself to go on. "It—the thing with Gerard. How Scott he"—Derek motioned—"held my neck . . . forced me to my knees . . ." He stopped as the words got harder to say, feeling ludicrous. It was _months_ ago. His throat ached with the silence and the need to speak. He fought tears, and his voice came out a strained whisper. "He held me open . . ."

"God, Derek . . ." A horrified whisper.

"Sometimes I taste Gerard's skin. Like disease." Something cracked. "I can't—"

"It's okay." Stiles touched his shoulder, and Derek turned to him.

"You don't understand. I was _fine_! It was . . . _I_ was. I handled it." Desperation tore a hole in his chest. "This isn't me. I know it's not me. But I can't—I can't." He beat a fist against his sternum and lost the battle against aggravated tears.

Stiles pulled him to his chest, gathered him close. He shook, with restrained emotion and loosed sobs and something more primal than both. He gasped, drawing Stiles's scent into himself, and chanced that it would be okay to hold him in return. This, too, was not him, was not a thing he needed.

"I don't know what's wrong," he muttered. He'd escaped. It should be better now.

Stiles drew soothing lines up and down his spine.

"You're hurt," he replied, simply.

It didn't feel so uncomplicated.

The tears dried up faster than the shaking. Derek loosened his grip when he felt Stiles start to pull away and watched with uncensored wonder as he moved himself up the bed to the headboard, a stretch and draw of strong limbs. Their gazes locked again, and Derek's heart beat harder against his ribs.

"You saw me, didn't you," Stiles said, not really a question.

Derek's pulse quickened again. Heat crept up his neck, and his dry throat clicked when he swallowed. He managed to nod.

Stiles nodded to himself and after a moment arrived at some conclusion. Derek wondered at the question.

"C'mere." Stiles held up his outstretched hands.

It hit like an arrow. Something about the look on his face or the slight wavering of his fingers—in that second he looked so like Mom.

"I'm not a child." Resentment dashed through him in a sudden storm.

Stiles froze. "I'm not treating you like a child," he said, lowering his arms.

Derek stood, scowling. "Then what are you doing?"

Stiles scowled back. "I don't know, Derek, trying to make you feel better. Because I thought _maybe _some bad things happened to you. But, hey, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you spent this whole time playing board games, doing shots—"

"Stiles!" The name burst from his lips with rough edges. He stared, chest heaving, unable to assemble his emotions into words. It wasn't fair for Stiles to look at him that way, with those eyes and so much sincerity.

Stiles quelled. "Did they?" he asked quietly. "Happen?"

The heated space between them dissipated while Derek gathered his courage to answer. It wasn't much. Just a juttering nod of the head and an unbidden welling in his eyes. But it was enough.

Stiles nodded back at him and visibly fought a rush of sympathetic emotion. It broke out in blotches across his face.

"How can I help?"

He felt foolish, overly needy. But the space between his ribs yawned with an emptiness so cold it burned.

He surrendered.

Derek sat on the edge of the bed and gave himself a moment to change his mind. Then he laid down and curled into Stiles's side and let himself be warmed.

He sighed. A second later Stiles sighed too and adjusted the placement of his hand a few times until it settled on Derek's waist and he gave up.

Derek concentrated on the sound of Stiles's breathing and brought his own into rhythm—a trick his mother had taught him to calm wild things. Stiles carried a mix of emotions in his scent, but Derek couldn't focus enough to tease them out. He smelled like safety and home. Time passed, though he meditated on the moment.

"Did we talk?" Stiles asked eventually. He used that voice people save for their private moments, hushed and fluid and round.

Derek let a few breaths pass. "Yeah, we talked."

"About what?"

Unlike most dreams, which fade on waking, these he could recall with clarity. The clothes Stiles was wearing, the color of his skin, the way nerves made him lick his lower lip.

"Whether you were going to go to Allison's funeral," he said in a low rumble. "You weren't sure you had a right."

"I—" Stiles pulse quickened a little. "How did you know that? We never talked about it."

Derek just smiled a glancing smile.

"What did you tell me?"

A deep breath. A sigh. "That you'd regret it if you didn't. And I'd go with you if it would help."

Stiles shifted, and Derek could feel his attention. "You weren't going to go?"

He shrugged. "Didn't want to cause problems with other Argents."

"But"—a frown entered Stiles's tone—"Scott and Isaac went."

"Scott and Isaac aren't Hales."

Stiles let that sit for a moment. "I did end up going. For real. You weren't there."

"I was there. Just . . . far."

He'd stayed as out of sight as best he could, just in case. Except for the once so Chris would know he'd come. He'd hoped the nod meant he'd understood.

"What else?" Stiles asked.

What else? He was there to hold on to after Kate went away. To tell him how it wasn't his fault and he'd made the right choices and to assess his wounds.

"Some of it's fuzzy. I—I don't wanna . . ."

"Sorry. No, it's okay. It was weird to ask."

Stiles shifted again, and Derek felt his fingers slide up the back of his head.

"I just thought," he went on, "it might tell me what to do."

He started running his fingers through Derek's hair in large, lazy circles, and Derek felt it, fuck, everywhere. Warmth running down his arms, down his back. It wasn't sexual, not like this, but still _so good_. He exhaled with a slight whimper and melted.

He lost track of time, lost track of consciousness. His existence narrowed to the pressure on his scalp and the waves that rippled down his body.

A sound pulled him from the cocoon.

It hardened into his name.

"Derek?"

His eyes snapped open, and he jerked up to sitting, gasping.

"Derek?" More alarmed.

He stared at Stiles.

A bed? _Their _bed? What—

A dream. Was it—

He couldn't breathe. He had to know. The dreams were done. They'd come for him.

_He'd_ come.

He grabbed Stiles's wrist in one hand, panting, and placed their palms together.

"Okay. It's okay," Stiles chanted.

He tapped their fingertips against one another, silently counting.

Five . . .

Only five. He let go.

"It's real, Derek. It's okay . . . it's real." Stiles held his arms and waited for him to focus.

He tried. For him, he tried. The terror lingered in his veins, but he schooled his breathing and stared hard in Stiles's eyes as his racing heart slowed. After a few seconds, they breathed in unison, and Stiles tugged at him to get him to lay back down.

As the adrenaline bottomed out, he sagged and laid heavily against the younger man's chest and shoulder.

"Sorry," he said weakly.

Stiles touched his hair. "I've seen worse. Been worse. At least you didn't start screaming."

Derek huffed what little breath he had. "Small favors."

His eyes fluttered shut when Stiles rubbed a gentle circle around the crown of his head. _It's real_, he told himself. _It's real_.

Stiles stared down at the odd angle of Derek's cheek and nose from a vantage he never imagined having. Derek Hale, tucked into his side in an intimate embrace.

His life could not get more weird.

He glanced up at the door as someone slipped in a key, and then Scott came in bearing bags of food. He stopped dead in the doorway, looking at the way they were wrapped together with an expression that quickly altered from amused to worried. He set the food he was carrying down gently, wincing at the crinkling sound, and came toward them, pulling the chair from the desk closer to the bedside.

Derek tensed against Stiles as they both watched him sit. Stiles moved his fingers through Derek's hair in reassurance and then dropped his hand to his back, self-conscious now that Scott was there to watch them.

Scott ducked his head, trying to catch Derek's gaze but failing. "So . . . I'm going to guess you're not doing so great," he said, hushed.

Derek shrugged, and Stiles exchanged a look with Scott to communicate just how not great he was doing.

Scott folded forward, clasping his hands and bracing his elbows on his knees. He had his sincere face on, the one he used with puppies at the clinic.

"What happened?" he asked.

A question Stiles had resolutely avoided. Not because it didn't matter. And he'd have listened if Derek had wanted to say. But because part of him didn't want to know.

Derek cleared his throat lightly and fidgeted—something so foreign to his characteristic stillness that Stiles felt his stomach tighten.

"She uh . . ." He swallowed audibly. "There were a lot of beatings." His voice came out toneless. "A lot—a lot of tasers." He licked his lips and closed a hand into a fist in Stiles's shirt. "Uhm. She . . . uh—" His voice cut off with a wheeze, and he started to shake again.

_Shit, shit, shit._

His breathing went fast and shallow, too fast.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Stiles rubbed his hand up and down Derek's back. "You're right here. It's okay."

A whine pushed from Derek's lungs as he fought the panic down. He pushed up the bed to bury his face in Stiles's neck and Stiles let him, clutching lightly and muttering soothing nonsense. He felt powerless and wanted to cry. Scott gaped.

"He smells like stress," Scott muttered.

Stiles huffed, cracking. "Ya think?" He stroked Derek's back as the shudders faded. Then to Scott, "It's okay, man. I got this. You can go."

"But—"

Stiles gave him a pleading look. "Scott, I just—I think it's maybe better if you go."

Scott nodded, still frowning and unsure if he should leave the situation as it was. He left, though, shutting the door with a gentle click.

"I'm sorry," Derek said in a rush of held breath. He sat up and turned away, burying his head in his hands.

"Hey—"

"This isn't normal. I know it isn't normal. But I can't . . . help it. I can't stop."

His bones ached watching him bend in on himself. Stiles reached out and placed his hand between Derek's shoulder blades. The muscles there bunched and shuddered.

"Hey. So you're weird for a while. I'm weird all the time."

Derek snorted a soft laugh but didn't turn around.

"C'mon . . . if you lay down I'll let you be little spoon?" He rubbed his hand up and down, feeling Derek breathe.

"I shouldn't need this," Derek muttered.

Stiles's hand stopped. "Says who?"

No reply.

Well, then they were going with his plan. Stiles shifted around, mashing his pillow into place, and flopped onto his side. The movement made Derek turn to look at him. He grinned shyly and lifted an arm in invitation. Derek rolled his eyes but joined him a moment later. Stiles let him decide how close he wanted to be, how much of their bodies would press together.

Turned out all of them.

He dropped an arm across Derek's middle. That seemed right. He didn't have much practice with the intimate arrangement of limbs. Derek let out a sigh like an ocean wave, and Stiles stared at the back of his head trying to process the enormity of it all. His heart ached. Mouth felt dry. He hadn't really been prepared to find Derek like this.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he whispered into the small hairs at the back of Derek's neck.

Derek stirred to show his attention.

"I'm sitting here and I'm just . . . _terrified_." He swallowed painfully. "I mean, what if I drop you? What if you break? What if you trust me and I don't do it right. You'll never trust me again, and I don't—I don't know how I'd live with that." Shocked at his own confession, he fell silent and waited, bowstrung.

"I'm already broken," came the soft reply.

Stiles sighed, gutted. "But not because of me."

Another small silence and then Derek said, "You won't mess up."

That was some heady kind of confidence, and Stiles wished he could believe it. But he was all instinct on this one. Just taking things as they came.

"Can you reach the light?" he asked.

It was early, but they could both use the rest. Derek stretched, sliding against him in a way he tried not to think about, and clicked off the light.

_SMASH!_

_Thump! Thump!_

Stiles bolted upright, his heart in his throat. _BeatbeatBeatbeatBeatbeatBeatbeat_.

Empty bed.

"Derek?" _Oh God, oh God. "Derek?"_

Blue eyes flashed low on the wall near the bathroom. And all he could hear was labored breathing, punctuated with wheezing whines.

_Shit._

Stiles eased out of bed on jelly legs, fear flooding his body. The lamp from the nightstand lay broken between the beds. He stepped carefully in bare feet and scurried over. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that Derek had shifted. He panted, and his blue eyes darted everywhere.

"Derek?" Stiles tried again, more softly this time.

If Derek heard him, he made no sign. He drew his claw up protectively and edged back.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Shhh . . . it's just me. Derek? Can you hear me? God, tell me you can hear me."

Derek's breaths wheezed out with low growls. The shadowed outline of his claws shook.

"It's okay . . ." He used his most calming voice and started to reach out slowly, ever so slowly.

The door to their room burst open.

"Stiles!" Scott shouted, his eyes going red.

It happened in a blur. Scott bounding in full-on werewolf. Derek thrashing. Stiles being thrown back into the foot of the bed.

Scott pinned Derek to the floor, growling in his face.

"Scott, stop!" Stiles scrambled onto his knees as both wolves roared at one another. Fuck this. "Scott, STOP!"

He flung himself into the tangle, pushing at Scott's chest. "Stop it!"

Scott blinked his red eyes and focused on him.

Lydia flicked on the lights from the doorway and stayed clear, a silent observer.

Stiles glared for all he was worth and gave Scott an extra shove for emphasis. Scott let Derek up and stepped back, his transformations melting away.

Anger brought Stiles to his feet. "What the hell's the matter with you!"

"He hurt you!" Scott pointed, confused.

Stiles glanced down and registered the pain from four gashes across his forearm that were starting to drip blood.

"He didn't mean to. I was doing fine."

Scott huffed and flicked a glare at Derek, who had gathered himself against the wall in a defensive huddle. "You aren't safe," he said.

"Jesus, Scott, since when are any of us ever safe?"

Movement by the door turned into Lydia walking in with the first aid kit from the Jeep. She gave Scott a long look and inclined her head toward the exit. Her judgmental eyebrows spoke volumes.

Scott's shoulders sagged. "I-I just didn't want you to get hurt . . ."

"Yeah, well, A+ on that one." His anger bled into sarcasm. He could have been kinder to his best friend. His best friend could have trusted him to handle himself.

"Stiles," a hurt whine. God, he hated that whine, mostly cause it always worked.

He girded himself against it. "I think you should probably go." He didn't have the strength to look at him while he said it, just stared at the floor instead. "I'll be fine."

Tension gathered in his chest while he waited for Scott to either argue or leave.

He left.

Stiles sank to the floor wanting to cry.

Derek held his forearm in one hand and dabbed at his torn skin with a washcloth, clearing the blood away. Stiles felt a cool, buzzing sensation where he touched, and it took him a second to realize Derek was taking away the pain.

"You don't have to do that," he said quietly.

Derek kept his gaze on his work. "I think I do."

He set the cloth side and got ointment from the kit with methodical slowness, like he could not bear anything less than infinite care. His mouth was drawn in a grim line. Even to Stiles's meager human senses, his misery was palpable.

Stiles watched as he put the ointment onto the wounds and began to spread it with gentle fingers. He could feel the touch but none of the sharp burns that should have gone with it.

"You wouldn't hurt me," Stiles said, not looking up.

Derek's fingers stopped. "I just did."

"On purpose." He met Derek's eyes . . . found them full of doubt.

Pain flooded back when Derek broke contact so he could cut some gauze. Stiles sucked in a breath over clenched teeth. The next few minutes were filled with glancing touches, each one cooling and giving Stiles shivers of a different kind.

"Did she ever let you out?" he asked to distract himself.

Derek's hands slowed and came to a stop as he picked up the roll of tape. He blinked and looked away. "Yes. She"—his neck and ears flushed red—"she made a collar. With a taser."

Stiles gasped. Kate and her fucking collars. He shouldn't have asked, suddenly felt _so guilty_ for asking.

Derek went on, his voice a breathy drone. "I could heal and shift . . . but she could always win when she wanted." He shrugged and wouldn't look Stiles in the face. "She likes giving a good beating."

Stiles's chin quivered. The look on Derek's face wasn't from a man who'd taken a few punches.

"That's not all she did, is it."

The breath rushed from Derek's lungs, and his eyes fell shut. Stiles felt his blood run cold.

"It's okay. You don't have to talk about it. But can you tell me what happened? Tonight, I mean." Maybe he did something, in his sleep. He didn't know . . .

Derek opened his eyes and got his hands moving again. He pressed a piece of tape into place. "I heard a car door slam," he said eventually and ducked his head, color creeping back up his neck. "It sounded a lot like hers. The darkness. I don't—I . . ." His voice dropped to a murmur. "That's how I knew she was coming. I'm sorry. Maybe Scott's right. Maybe you shouldn't—"

Stiles covered Derek's hand with his own, and they sat for a moment just breathing. Neither wanting to break the silence first. It sounded like a flashback, or something similar. What it really sounded like was something far out of Stiles's league. He licked his lower lip. Something had to be bad to give people flashbacks.

"Are you . . . are you still hurt anywhere?" Stiles asked. He moved a finger near Derek's wrist, where the skin had been burned and blistered, nudging at the sleeve.

"Me?"

He sighed. "Yes, you. Derek, I—I don't know what happened, and I just—" He brushed a thumb back and forth across the back of Derek's fingers as he searched for the words. "While we have the first aid kit open . . ."

Derek made a soft sound and rolled his shoulders. "No. Nothing for a first aid kit."

Stiles licked his lip again. "I, uh. I wanna ask you something but I don't think you're gonna like it," he said, watching Derek's face.

Derek lifted an eyebrow at him.

"I think, when we get back, you should see a therapist." He removed his hand in case Derek wanted to pull away. Instead he got a frown and Derek's gaze falling to the wounded arm between them. "I just—I don't know how to help you. And this is serious. And I don't think we can do this ourselves. And the stuff that's wrong isn't even werewolf stuff. And I'm sure Mrs. McCall would—"

"Stiles."

He clacked his jaw shut.

Derek turned to get another piece of tape and continue attaching the gauze. He stared at the cuts for a long time before covering them.

"I'll go."

"Seriously?"

Derek nodded and smoothed another piece of tape in place. As soon as he let go, Stiles surged forward and wrapped him in a hug.

"Good. That's really, really good," Stiles told him, then let go before the hug got too long cause, well, because.


	10. Chapter 10

It sounded at first like someone was outside.

Lydia woke up to the cut on her hand throbbing and muffled voices just beyond their motel room door. She sat up slowly, curling her wounded hand to her chest, and tried to listen.

Men's voices. Angry.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly 4am, hours after the . . . situation . . . in the room next door, so it couldn't be that, couldn't be a response to unnatural roaring waking other guests. If there _were_ other guests. Something about the voices, though . . . something off.

Lydia slipped from her bed and approached the door on silent feet, trying to focus her hearing. Her cut pulsed.

_"__Santa Muerte_ . . ." she whispered, unconscious of doing so.

Across her shoulders, a cool pressure, and then the sound of Scott's light snores folded under the preternatural calm of the Lady's cloak.

Lydia pressed her ear to the door and closed her eyes.

The muffling resolved into the static of a radio.

"Attention all units," she mumbled to herself, translating the voices. "Prisoner has escaped. Two officers down. Suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. White female with blonde hair last seen leaving . . ." She stopped, her mouth dropping into a terrified Oh.

Lydia turned, breaking the spell, and rushed to Scott's bed.

"Scott." She shook his shoulder, but he only snuffled and rolled to his side. Scowling, she shoved on his shoulder hard. "Scott!"

He startled awake with a snort. "Uhn?"

Blood whistled in her veins. "Get up."

"What?" He frowned in confusion.

"Get. Up!" She spun away to grab a change of clothes.

"Why? Lydia . . ." Scott sat up, watching her.

"Because I heard something." She paused and gave him a meaningful look.

Scott's soft, dark eyes widened in understanding. "Heard something. Heard what?"

Lydia went back to gathering a shirt and pants. "She escaped custody."

Scott's voice came out small, leaden. "Kate."

"Sounded like she killed some cops," Lydia added. "Maybe wounded. I-I'm not sure."

Scott tossed his covers off and moved to stop her, taking her wrist into his hand. "Okay. So?"

She gaped at him. "So? So we have to go." She pulled away and headed for the bathroom.

"Lydia, it's 4am! Can't it wait?"

Wait? What part of _Kate is loose_ was he not hearing? She tossed off her night shirt and pulled a fresh t-shirt on, then leaned out of the doorway.

"Where do you think she's gonna go first?"

He thought about it. "Her car."

"And then she's gonna find—"

"Derek missing and start looking for him."

Her look was not so much approval as sarcastic congratulations. "And we are not far enough away. There's one road from Jiménez to here." She leaned back in and finished pulling on her pants, then rushed out and started rolling all her things into her bag. She stopped and looked at Scott, still in in his boxers, and gave him a critical eye. "I don't think we'll be hard to find," she concluded.

After a few more seconds of her pointed staring, Scott shuffled around in place, flustered, and found something to wear. She left her bag next to his.

"I'll go wake them," she said.

It was a kindness. Scott had lain awake for an hour alternating between pained sighs and aggravated tossing. She hadn't known what to say to make it better, and her usual methods weren't ones she ever planned on using with him. Eventually, he'd just started talking. And what are banshees for but to listen?

Stiles would forgive him, she was sure of that.

Just maybe not right now. Maybe not today.

Lydia took the other room key but knocked anyway. She heard a low grumble.

"It's Lydia," she whispered loudly.

A second later the door opened revealing Derek. His hair exploded at different angles, making him look soft and young. The truth lay in his eyes.

"Hi," she said, suddenly aware how little report they had.

Derek lifted his eyebrows in question.

Yes. Get to the point. She plastered on a smile. "Right. Um. We have to go." She drew out the last word, testing how it would land.

Derek frowned.

Despite not really knowing each other, Lydia found herself looking away, not particularly interested in upsetting him more than had already been done. But she was low on options.

"She escaped custody," she admitted. When she glanced up, she saw Derek swallow. His gaze started wandering, and he retreated a step back.

"Derek. I'm sorry, but I don't think it's safe to stay here."

Further in the room, Stiles woke up and peered at them. "What's going on?" he croaked.

Lydia glanced at Derek, and he nodded back, distressed but not to distraction. "We'll meet you in the car?" she offered.

"The car," Stiles echoed, still groggy with sleep.

"Get up," Derek told him. He gave Lydia another nod and gently shut the door.

Tensions have flavors. Some are sexual and taste like anticipation. Some are angry and taste like blood. The one in the Jeep was resentful and tasted like tacos—which had gone cold since dinner time but gave them each something to occupy themselves with while Scott drove.

Lydia had hoped they might talk about it. Or Stiles would fall into chatting like he usually did. But every time she turned around to check on him, ask for a bottle of water, or her pillow or her bag, he was staring out the window or examining the bandage on his arm or watching Derek while Derek wasn't looking.

Whatever. They'd talk about it. They'd be fine. Just maybe not tonight.

Lydia pondered who she felt needed to start that conversation and tucked her decision away for future use.

Best friends . . .

Best friends were not to be taken for granted.

They managed to find an all night gas and convenience store in Chihuahua proper and loaded up on fuel and prepackaged food. The route they were taking, Lydia explained, wasn't going to have any restaurants along the way. Stiles even filled the spare gas can just in case.

Once they were moving again, Derek muttered something to Stiles, and Stiles leaned forward to ask for a map of the town. Lydia handed back her laptop.

"What?" Scott asked peering at them in the rearview mirror.

Derek did not look up when he answered. "We should try to throw her off our scent. There are at least two streams through town and a lot of roads. Which way do we want to leave?"

"Route 16," Lydia said.

Derek traced along the map. "If we do a lot of double-backs, it'll make it harder for her to know which way to go. And if we drive up and down some complete grids, she won't know which way to follow first. It'll help if we can drive through one of these streams, but we'll know when we get there."

Scott looked skeptical. "Isn't that going to take, I dunno, awhile?"

Derek sighed. "Yes. Probably. Would you rather leave an obvious trail?"

Scott conceded and put the Jeep into gear, while Derek handed the laptop forward. He pointed out a few key locations until Lydia waved him away.

Dawn came and the town was waking up by the time they finished the last double-back and started out into the desert.

Not all ruins are ancient. And not all deserts are the heavy hands of time. Civilizations have been swallowed by the Sahara's relentless slow sea. But in Mexico, the past lives—_dentro cada día es la Día de los Muertos_.

Five years past, a mining boom brought new hope to the impoverished and new machines to the alluvial fans. American interests built a suburb on dry clay. But you can only get so much blood from a stone. When the veins went dry, the people moved on, leaving behind appropriated dreams that even the land would not claim.

The Jeep rolled into a modern ghost town on a road marked only by its slightly more uniform flatness than the desert on either side. The paint on the sidings had faded under the unforgiving sun, making each house look aged beyond its years. But they stood in strong, regular rows with gardens of succulents that soldiered on absent their caretakers' hands.

Stiles slung himself around the back of Lydia's headrest, watching through the front windshield in awe. "What is this place?"

She shrugged. "Abandoned. Out of the way."

"Dead," Scott intoned, bringing the car to a slow, squeaking halt. "This is where we're going?"

Lydia glanced over her shoulder at Stiles. "I thought we should avoid major roads."

Derek huffed. "Overachiever."

It tightened her grin, as though she couldn't be sure if he was mocking.

"So," Stiles looked between Scott and Lydia, his eyebrows doing a little dance. "Breaking and entering?"

Scott smirked. "Take your pick."

So he did. The little red house faded to pink, second on the left.

The classic B&E loses something when you can just rip the handle off the door with werewolfy powers. Stiles's morbid delight went the way of the crushed hunk of metal, and he gave Scott a deadpan, unamused look.

The four of them filed in to find the house not quite as empty as they'd have expected. There were still curtains, still a rug on the living room floor. Still one couch.

"Cozy."

Scott dropped his bag and announced that he was going to inspect the rest of the place for anything useful. He came back a second later, stunned.

"They left the beds!"

"Oh no. No. Scott, I am not sleeping in someone's old room in a ghost town." Stiles pointed at him for emphasis.

"But—"

"No."

Scott cast around. "Well, we could bring the mattresses down here, then."

Stiles stared at him for a second with narrowed eyes and tried to decide if that violated his personal ethics. "Yeah, okay."

Derek shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. He'd been silent nearly the whole ride. "I'll help," he said.

Stiles watched him with surprise as he followed Scott. He kept his distance and pumped his hands into fists, but those were the only outward signs of distress.

They camped inside and ate junk food, and if it wasn't all so fucking horrible, it might actually have been fun. They didn't bring enough blankets and so slept two to a mattress, Derek and Stiles, Scott and Lydia. Even with a roof over their heads and doors and windows closed, the temperature hovered around uncomfortably cold. They all huddled into multiple layers.

After a few hours of staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, Derek slid out from under the blankets and went to stand by the window, where he could watch the road from behind the curtains. A headache throbbed dully at the base of his skull. Every muscle ached and weighed twice what it should. Even small motions took so much . . . _effort_. He rolled his pained shoulders and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for daylight.

Stiles stirred and stretched on the mattress. His breathing changed, probably when he noticed Derek gone. A few moments later, he came to the window wrapped in the blanket and stood for a long time without speaking.

Derek got a twinge of regret in his chest for having woken him, for costing him the good night's rest he obviously needed. For a second, he watched Stiles watching the empty street, tracing lines between the moles on his face, and tried to decide if apologizing was the right thing.

"Can't sleep?" Stiles asked, eyes on the moonlit husks of suburban dreams.

"Not really."

Stiles glanced at him. "Did you sleep last night?"

Derek ducked his head a little. "Not really."

Nodding, Stiles turned his attention back outside. "Is there anything I can do?"

The question hung in the air for a minute or two as Derek tried to find an answer among his jumbled thoughts. Stiles waited, more patient than he'd ever seen him.

Eventually, "I don't know." And it felt like letting Stiles down, another item on a long list of failures.

But Stiles simply nodded and snuggled further into the blanket. "I can stay up."

"You don't have to do that." He added more quietly, "I don't want you to have to do that."

The blanket rustled as Stiles turned to look at him, a long heavy sort of gaze filled with too many things for Derek to untangle them all. "Okay," he said a length. It rang of disappointment, but Derek had nothing to fill the void.

He watched Stiles shuffled back to bed and arrange the blanket so Derek could have his share. He'd have been warmer if he'd taken the whole thing.

He'd be warmer if Derek shared the space with him.

Derek let out a long, slow breath and padded over to the mattress. Stiles pretended to be asleep as he slid under the blanket next to him, and it brought a smirk to his lips.

"Get some sleep," Derek whispered.

At least one of them should.

Fate did not believe in sleeping.

Derek woke up to Stiles's elbow in his ribs and a kick to the face punctuated by muffled shouting and then Stiles screaming his name. He rolled away in startled self-preservation and came up in a crouch just as Scott and Lydia stumbled into consciousness.

The air stank of feline were.

_No. Nonononononono._

Dawn's light broke in through the living room windows as Kate backed herself away.

Scott made an inarticulate noise, then, "Stiles!" as he caught up to speed.

Terror thundered through Derek's body, his heart beating out the horror of her name. He shifted and bared his teeth as frightened things do. Cold sweat broke out everywhere. Every breath wheezed in with sharp pain. The world started tipping out of control, but Stiles, she had Stiles.

He struggled to focus and gnashed his teeth.

Kate smiled at him and adjusted her grip, setting her claws against Stiles's white throat. He pressed his eyes closed for a second, trying not to whimper, then opened them and stared straight at Derek.

The wolves fanned out, Scott circling wide so they each could take a side. Kate stepped carefully to put her back toward the kitchen—and an escape route.

"Scott," she said pleasantly. "Nice to see you again."

"Let him go." Scott growled and flashed his eyes.

Derek edged a little closer. He could smell Stiles's fear, and it compounded his own. His clawed hands shook as all the pain and humiliation beat around his skull. He could feel her violating hands on his body and fought a wave of sickness.

Every fiber screamed for him to run. To hide.

But he couldn't, he _couldn't _leave Stiles to her, to this. He'd rather die. The twist in his gut said he might get the chance.

Kate chuckled at Scott and turned her attention Derek's direction. "No, I don't think so. You see, Derek's going to help me, whether he wants to or not." She pressed her claws into Stiles's neck a little harder, making him hiss. "And now I know how to make sure of it."

Derek growled, eyes flashing.

Kate went on. "You know I must admit I'm a little surprised at you, Scott. I thought _you'd _be on my side on this one."

"And help you what, kill all werewolves?" Scott asked, swaying from foot to foot as he looked for an opening.

Kate's expression altered, wickedly delighted. "Oooh. Oh, ho ho." She gasped in pleasure. "He didn't tell you, did he."

Derek felt his heart skip. He hadn't told them anything. He'd hadn't— There hadn't been _time_— He hadn't been able to think things through. The floor shifted out from under him, and he saw suddenly just how fatal an error that might have been. He locked eyes with Stiles, who gazed back with confusion.

"Tell me what," Scott demanded.

Kate smiled and nuzzled up against Stiles's cheek, loosing a growl from Derek's throat. "I don't want to kill La Loba, Scott. Not anymore."

"Then what?"

"Think about it!" She pressed in a nail until it drew blood, staring Derek down. Stiles's fear rolled off of him in waves. "She brings back the dead, Scott." Kate turned her eyes from Derek long enough to give Scott a meaningful look. "You know anyone like that lately?"

A shudder rippled down Derek's body as he watched Scott drop his fighting stance. His heart raced fast, so fast.

"Allison," the boy whispered.

"Allison."

Scott shot Derek an accusatory look. "You knew? You knew that's she wanted?"

Stiles arched in Kate's arms, straining. "Oh my God, Scott!"

"What! Stiles, we could fix it! What if we could bring her back? We could fix . . . everything! We could make it better!" Passion and pain filled his young voice.

"No." Lydia, forgotten in the corner, spoke like a tolling bell.

Scott's jaw dropped as he frowned at her in bewilderment, and Derek cast her wondering look.

"What? Lydia, she's your best friend. You could have her back!"

"She _was _my best friend," Lydia replied, tears building in her eyes as she nodded. They clung to her lashes. "And she died for something."

"To save you."

"No," her voice came out thick and heartbroken. "Something more. And she wouldn't want you to. Not at this price."

"What price?" Scott demanded.

Derek took his eyes off Kate and Stiles long enough to see Lydia's gaze land on him. A gaze of sorrow, unexpected compassion. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

_"Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes."_ Lydia pronounced, as much a benediction as Derek had ever heard.

His heart quivered with a blossom of purpose and courage, and he found Stiles watching him with something fierce in his eyes.

He heard Lydia take a deep breath and realized with suddenly clarity her plan. There are, after all, only two things a banshee can do.

They can listen.

And they can scream.

It hit with the unsound of an atom bomb—the held breath before a shockwave. A sound that blotted out sound, assaulted their bodies, and turned everything white.

Derek had clamped his hands over his ears just in time.

Kate hadn't known what was coming. She threw her head back, howling in agony and reaching for her ears. It gave him a chance to strike.

Derek charged, and as soon as he dropped his hands, Lydia stopped. He grabbed Stiles by the arm and flung him free, then roared and sank his teeth into the curve of Kate's throat.

She screamed again, only this time he could feel it on his lips. Blood filled his mouth. He bit harder.

Kate shoved her claws into his abdomen and ripped downward, tearing organs. Derek grunted and clamped down, feeling his teeth cut through vital flesh.

He wanted to scream, in agony and terror. Scream and be done with her forever. Blood flowed freely from his burning wounds. He squeezed his eyes shut and held on.

They battled with each other with flailing strikes. She tried to push him off, throw them both off balance. He grabbed at her wrists. She went for her gun, and Derek wrestled her for it, slammed her back against the wall and felt for her hand because he wasn't looking at any of this.

His jaw ached. Blood flowed into his mouth. Ran over his lips, soaking his front. He tried not to swallow.

In desperation, he let the monster within free.

Two quick shakes, and the piece of flesh in his mouth tore off.

Derek stumbled back, spit, and watched, heaving, as Kate sank to the floor, blood spraying from the vein he'd ripped open. More than anything, she looked shocked.

He stood shaking for a moment, staring at her. His tormentor. Rapist. He lost his shift.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but only coughed up blood and lifted a hand.

Derek pointed the gun at her head and fired.

At so close a range, even with the shaking he couldn't have missed. Tears ran freely down his face as he shuffled back a step and fired again. And again.

The trembling got worse each time, until he finally pulled the trigger and the gun merely clicked.

For an age, no one and nothing moved. His body didn't feel like his.

He thought . . . it would feel like triumph. Or relief.

Her blood formed a widened pool around her body, and he felt more empty than before. Like even in death she had taken some more of him away.

He'd savaged her. And murdered.

"Derek?"

Stiles.

He tore his gaze from the corpse he had created and saw Stiles edging toward him with one outstretched, hesitant hand. _Stiles._ Relief flooded through his limbs, and he surged forward. Two quick steps and he pulled Stiles into a crushing mess of a hug.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, quivering, into his neck. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. I—"

"What? Why? Why are you sorry?" Stiles's worried voice in his ear.

He swallowed, holding him a little tighter as his face blazed hot with shame. The words stuck in his throat on pins, and he could not stop shaking. He'd torn a person _apart_. Like an animal . . .

"Derek?" Stiles pulled back a little.

He pressed his forehead onto Stiles's shoulder, unable to face him.

"For being a killer," slipped out somehow, and Stiles froze.

He knew then that this was the moment when he'd realize, when he'd finally see the defiled thing Derek had always been. The beast Argents hunted. This was the moment he'd walk away. Derek could feel him already leaning back, tearing prongs from a battered heart.

"Look at me."

He lifted his eyes, wary and unwilling to watch him go.

"You're not. Okay? You're not."

He shook his head, unconvinced, blood still on his lips.

"You were protecting me. And you. That's self-defense."

Something moved from the direction of Kate's body, and Derek spun to keep himself between Stiles and harm. The gun came up automatically. It took a second to register what he was seeing. Scott was dragging the body. He did not know what to make of it.

Stiles extricated himself and took the gun gently from Derek's hand. He began wiping it down for prints like this was a well-practiced habit.

"Scott, what are you doing?" Stiles said.

Scott paused, anger still in his eyes, and leveled a steady gaze. "We have to bury her."

"Like hell we do."

Scott eased her body back down. "Stiles, we can't just leave her here!"

Stiles tossed the cleaned gun on the floor. "I'm pretty sure we can. Let the coyotes have her."

"Stiles!" Scott's jaw dropped, appalled.

"No, Scott. No. I am not digging her a grave. I am not sweating over her corpse. She gets nothing from me, understand? Nothing."

Stiles grabbed Derek's wrist to turn him and hurriedly gathered all his things around the beds into his bag. Derek followed Stiles in a fog, obeying his directions, carrying things when asked. He'd loved two women in his life and killed them both. He wanted to ask Stiles what that meant.

The headache he'd had for days surged back hard, and he lost track of everything but the pain of it.

Stiles took him by the elbow and urged him out toward the car, saying something about the wounds on his stomach and was he okay.

Lydia followed, though she lingered, watching Kate's body as if to make sure this time.

Minutes later, Scott stormed down to the Jeep with his things, fury in every line of his body.

"We can't do this!" he insisted.

Derek used his shirt to wipe the blood from his face and dab at the healing gashes on his body. He searched for something else to wear, avoiding Scott's anger. He was letting Stiles fight his battle, and he burned with shame for it.

Stiles flailed in the direction of the house. "She's already dead, Scott! Months ago! Funeral and everything."

"It's not about that."

"Then what?"

"She's a person, Stiles!"

"No!" Stiles's voice hardened with conviction, and leaned toward Scott with the fox's face. "She was a monster. You don't wanna just leave her there? Fine. Burn the house down around her." He flinched as soon as he said it and turned to Derek. Derek blinked back at him placidly. Too much for one day. Too many emotions to have any more.

Scott shook his head, like he could not believe the man in front of him was his friend. He stalked to the back of the Jeep, ignoring Derek's existence, and grabbed the spare can of gas and an emergency road flare.

Derek slipped into the back seat of the Jeep with the silent conservation of movement of someone trying to disappear. A few minutes later, Scott slammed into the driver's seat, Lydia next to him, smelling vaguely of gasoline fumes. Stiles sat behind Lydia, staring out the window as the flames rose high enough to see through the windows and the roof of the house started to puff smoke.

The small car housed a symphony of discord, as they left a funeral pyre in their wake.


	11. Chapter 11

"Stop the car."

Lydia stared out into the desert with wide, searching eyes, one hand pressed against the window.

Scott shot a confused look in her direction. "What?"

"Scott, stop the car!" she insisted, straining to hear more clearly.

He slammed on the brakes, and they all came lurching to a halt in the middle of an empty highway that stretched to the horizon both directions.

"Lydia?" Stiles leaned over her seat back.

She turned to Scott, then Derek. "You don't hear that?"

The wolves exchanged glances and shook their heads, wary.

With a frustrated sound, she threw open her door and got out, turning as though to catch the signal better. For a second, no one in the Jeep moved.

Then she started to walk.

"Lydia!" Scott grabbed the keys from the ignition and scurried out into the midday sun.

Stiles ran to the back of the Jeep and grabbed their backpacks, shoving bottles of water in each. He called Scott's name to get his attention and flung his bag over. If they were walking out into the desert, they were bringing supplies. No desiccated corpses for the birds.

Lydia led with the steady tread of a grand marshal.

They walked for hours—until Stiles couldn't see his car anymore. He scowled back in the direction they had come, and Scott stopped, watching him.

"I can see it," he offered.

Stiles gave him a sheepish look and nodded.

"I wouldn't worry. No one's going to steal it," Scott said, grinning weakly.

Stiles bristled, though just for show. "Well they should. It's a classic."

Scott snorted small laugh at him, and they kept walking.

They walked through playas covered in agave and mesquite. Kicked up a dust trail that even the poorest hunter could follow. And turned full bottles into empty ones. The red hills on the horizon stayed distant, and nothing grew tall enough around them to cast any shade. The only saving grace was that it was still the middle of winter.

Lydia never wavered. She would turn and lift her eyebrows to ask "What about now?" and then forge on.

Scott fell into step behind her. Stiles and Derek followed.

It built gradually, a charge in the air that had the hair on Derek's arms standing on end. It tickled in his head and sizzled in his belly. It felt like . . . like power. Like an alpha spark and a strong pack.

"Uh . . . Derek?" Stiles slowed to a stop, watching him with a concerned frown. Scott stopped, too, and the look on Stiles's face got markedly more alarmed when he glanced at him. "Guys . . ."

"What?" A little irritation might have slipped into Derek's voice.

Stiles pointed at his hands.

At his _claws_.

Derek's heart thumped hard as he held up his hands and turned them over. "But . . . I'm not—"

"Me neither," Scott said, a twinge of panic in his tone. "But I feel a little weird, do you feel weird?"

Derek nodded at him. "Like—"

"Buzzing," they said together.

Stiles looked between the two of them. "You aren't feeling, like, homicidal or anything, right?"

Derek glared, and Stiles threw up his hands. "I'm just checking! You know, uncontrolled shifting does not seem like a good thing to me."

"Guys!" Lydia called. "Can you hear it?"

She sighed, frustrated, when they shook their heads, and continued on.

The farther they went, the thicker the air became. It moved like fabric over Derek's skin, shivering with powerful magic. He lost track of time, of the dip of the sun. His senses somehow opened wider, until he could hear the scuttle of mice and taste birds in the air. And there, just as the edge of his hearing, something else. Something—

"Are—are you doing that on purpose?" Stiles asked, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial.

Derek winced at the sudden sound of him and inclined his head in his direction. "What?"

"Dude, you're wolfed out. Like"—he swept a gesture over his whole face—"totally shifted."

Derek blinked at him, stopping, and then touched his own face, feeling the altered architecture of his features. A chill of worry swept through him, and he glanced up to find Scott in a similar state, his eyes faintly glowing red.

"How is this possible?" Scott asked.

"I don't know."

"I can't shift back!" Scott flailed a little.

"Scott, I don't know!" Derek growled around his fangs. "But . . . I think . . . I think I can hear it. I hear"—he shook his head and closed his eyes to concentrate—"something."

"Like a voice," Scott added.

"Thank God!" Lydia had stopped to come back for them. "Now come on. I think we're close. It's giving me a headache."

They followed her to a rocky ridge and picked their way down the side of an arroyo.

The voice resolved further, as though the dry riverbed carried its flow, and Derek turned to follow. It _felt_ like walking into a rushing river, the sound sending shivers down his arms and brushing his face, prickly warm.

Shadows cut across the quiet valley as they walked into dusk.

"Derek," Scott said.

"I see it."

A flicker of fire.

Without meaning to, he started to run. And running had never felt so effortless. Strength surged through his body, and the closer he got, the faster he could feel himself moving. Scott stayed at his side, the two of them darting on fleet feet. Exhilaration lifted through his limbs like a drug.

Derek slowed as the sound of Stiles calling his name reached him, and he turned to see the others running themselves ragged to catch up. Scott appeared next to him a second later, and they waited with draining patience.

Stiles scowled at him but didn't say anything.

They were close enough now to see the source of the sound, of the _singing_.

A figure shuffled around near the rocky wall of the gully, moving between an elaborate lean-to and a cooking fire. They approached together, and as they came into the faint glow of the campfire, the figure stopped her chores and her singing to face them.

Derek was met with a face both foreign and familiar. The Aztecs would have known this face, round with lines like the desert canyons and cracked clay. She hunched under the weight of layered shawls in browns and reds and wore jewelry constructed of tiny bones. Her hair, streaked with a timber wolf's black and grey, fell in a long, bushy tail down her back.

Derek's breath felt faint in his chest. She looked at each of them in turn, ancient eyes performing some calculation before she moved on. Scott let out an unsteady breath under her gaze. Lydia grew silent. Stiles looked awed. And Derek felt his heart race.

_"__Niños,"_ she said, a voice like the earth, deep and rich.

At his side, Stiles whispered, "It's her isn't it?"

_La Loba._

Derek glanced at him and nodded. It had to be. Could only be.

The old woman shuffled closer to Derek and stretched up her small hand, not hesitating to lay it flat to his cheek as she examined his face and once again looked into him. She felt like pack—that ineffable aura of safety and home. He pressed into her touch, surprised at his own reaction.

She squinted at him. "I know your blood," she said in accented English. "Evangeline's." She slipped her hand away, and Derek felt the loss keenly.

He frowned and took a second to find his voice. "My mother's name was—"

"Talia. Yes, _lobito_"—she smiled a grandmother's patient smile—"but her mother and her mother." She rolled her wrist, flicking through time. "Enough mothers, and there is my Evangeline." She smiled and chortled to herself, amused by something she did not share.

Derek swallowed, unsure what to say to his progenitor. La Loba calmed her amusement and peered at him, the light of the campfire flickering in her suddenly serious eyes. The sun sets quickly in the desert, and only a crescent moon and the stars now lit the barren landscape. Night creatures raised their calls and left their shelters to fuck and kill. Primal instincts made all the more urgent and harsh by the precarious balance of life on the edge of extremes.

Derek felt himself slowly exposed under La Loba's quiet scrutiny. The urge to draw back bubbled in his blood. He sensed Stiles moving closer to his side, and the knowledge let him bear her burrowing attention.

She drew a deep breath and finally blinked. "It has been hard," she said, saddened. "Will you let me see?"

They were strangers. And yet, every instinct Derek had told him he could put his trust here, that her dark hands had grown hard from ages of taking care. How could he refuse?

He started to turn to show her the back of his neck, but she gently gripped his arm to stop him. "No . . . _Canta, mijo_. Sing for an old woman." She put her hand briefly to his cheek again in reassurance and stepped back.

For a second, Derek stared at her, trying to decide what she wanted.

"Tell me everything," she said at his hesitation.

He nodded. Everything.

Everything . . .

Everything cracked his ribs. Everything burned his soul. Everything had been locked in so long. He did not have _words_ for everything.

And then he understood.

Derek shuddered as he drew a deep breath and tipped his head back.

Then he howled.

Emotions forgotten struggled free. Memories, loves, laughs, and family. The thoughts bled into despair, and terror. He called out with the mournful, pitiful howl of the lonely and shattered. Sorrow and rage ripped his throat, and by the time he was out of breath, tears fell from the corners of his eyes.

He swallowed painfully and looked down at her.

"All of it. All that you love and all that you hate."

Derek glanced at Stiles, whose eyes shone with tears, and raised his voice a second time.

_All that you love. All that you hate._

The cry carried out of him his anger and fear; his sternum ached with letting go.

And then Scott joined in with a howl of his own, and they modulated against one another. For a moment, with closed eyes, the canyon filled with voices of those lost.

The wolfsong hung in the air, bouncing off the stars, and faded as their breaths ran out.

Derek shivered as too much emotion pressed on the inside of his skin and then felt a steady palm press to his back.

He looked down at La Loba and found her crying.

"All that?" she said, blinking out tears. "All that for one so young?"

He didn't know what to say and struggled to keep himself in check as Stiles let his hand fall.

The old woman sucked in a breath and held herself tall, coming up to his chest.

"Do you know what it takes to make a wolf?" she asked, holding his gaze as the campfire flames reflected in her eyes. Ancient power dwelled in the depths.

He shook his head.

"Blood to give them life. Bones to make them sturdy. Love to make them fierce. Courage to make them strong." She thumped him on the chest with the heel of her hand. "I can see your heart, _lobito_. You are everything I pray my wolves to be."

He stared down at her, wanting so much to believe. "But, I failed . . . everyone. And—"

"You are scared."

He snapped his jaw shut and nodded.

She thumped him on the chest again. "It wouldn't be brave if you weren't scared."

Stiles made a sound, bursting the bubble that had formed around them.

"I think it might be a little more than scared, you know?" he said. "I mean, there's a difference between facing a pack of alphas and . . . and suffering."

"Stiles!" Derek barked lowly at him.

"What? There is!"

Just as he was about to be mortified, La Loba started to laugh, her small shoulders jostling under her rags. She gave Stiles a look that quickly had him shrugging and kicking at the dirt—a look not even the sheriff had mastered.

"He is right," she said, and turned back to Derek, considering.

When she held up her hands, he bent into them. Her touch was warm, at first, but rough and callused. He didn't recognize it, when she started to draw on the pain that had settled in his bones, making him weak. It had been years since someone had done this for him. Cool relief flooded into his system, and he felt himself drifting, so light he could float.

Distantly, "What are you doing?" he heard Scott say.

"Helping."

"But he's not hurt."

She tsked. "He is. A wound of the soul," came her reply. "I cannot undo all that's been done. That will take time and love, and should not be done alone. But I can do this."

He could not have described the sensations. Like the world tipping. Or the sky clearing. The instinct at the back of his mind to watch and run settled its hackles.

He could not remember the last time it had been so.

The headache at the base of his skull eased.

He wavered, punch drunk, when she stopped and blinked over at Stiles, who had his arms crossed over his chest, watching closely.

"I don't get it. How could she heal him? What's there to heal?"

Lydia shifted closer to his other side and lifted one shoulder. "There are PTSD medications. They affect brain chemistry."

Derek huffed at the both of them. He felt lighter, and that was enough.

La Loba looked at him for a long time, with an uncomfortable intensity. He didn't know what she'd heard in his howl, and part of him suspected it was more than he'd ever shared with anyone.

"May I give you a gift?" she asked. "Evangeline's children were close to my heart. I felt it"—she tapped her chest—"when so many died. Will you stay? For a song?"

Derek nodded dumbly at her, and she grinned with the mischievous glee of a child.

La Loba shuffled back toward her campfire. She lowered herself down onto a small log close to the flames and took up a piece of agave leaf. As she cut the leaf into pieces and dropped it into the pot on the fire next to her, she started to sing.

Her voice moved through him with the force of the ocean coming in at tide, pulling deep and washing through his spirit with the slow insistent movement of a force of nature. The words were a Spanish lullaby, but the power behind it older than language. Derek's knees went weak, and he let himself drop to ground, let himself sink into the thrum of her voice. Trancelike, he wobbled, staring at her dark form next to the fire, until his eyes stung. When he closed them, an itching sensation raced across his skin, and he shivered in its wake.

"Oh my God," Stiles said, breathless as La Loba's song ended.

Derek turned to look up at him, to ask what was wrong. But the sound that came out of him was not his voice at all.

Stiles stared slack-jawed at the black wolf Derek had become. It yipped and grumbled at him, then looked down at its own paws. _No way._ Stiles let his backpack slide to the ground and started to kneel to—what? pet him? Derek stood and shook himself, sloughing off of his human clothes. Even this close to the fire, he was a shadow, just a shape, and Stiles could no longer make out his eyes.

Derek looked up at him, then Lydia and Scott, then wheeled on unsteady legs.

He balanced a second, seeming to get a feel for his new body.

Then he ran.

Like an arrow. Like a shot.

A crest of shock and panic sent Stiles bounding after him. _No!_ "Derek!" But he disappeared into the darkness. "Derek!" Stiles shouted louder, Derek's name blazing in his throat. He spun in a tight circle burrowing his hands through his hair. _God, Oh God, oh God._ "Scott!" Stiles grabbed at his arm, but even as he pulled him over and pointed, Scott was shaking his head.

"There's a ridge. Stiles, he went over it. I-I can't see him."

Stiles's breathing turned shallow with dread. He was gone. They just . . . He was_ gone_.

How could—

They had to—

He turned in place a few times trying to collect himself. They had to go. After him. Now.

La Loba appeared at his side and took his elbow gently in her hand, leading him back toward the fire. "Let him run," she said.

He pulled out of her grasp. "Let him run? What if doesn't come back? I just got him back, what if he—"

She cut him off with a raised hand and kind smile. "He will come back."

Stiles ached to believe her. "How do you know?"

She shrugged and sat back down on her log to stir her soup pot. "I know. And if he does not come on his own, he will come when I call. He is not lost."

Stiles stood with his fists on his hips, glaring down at her. But he couldn't sustain his alarm in the face of her solemn composure. He huffed and glanced at Scott and Lydia. They both shrugged.

"So, I guess we're staying," Scott said, and set his backpack down.

He and Lydia gathered near the fire to escape the chill of the night desert air and accepted La Loba's hospitality while they settled in to wait. Stiles paced into the darkness to find some place to be alone.

The campfire slowly reduced itself to glittering embers as Stiles watched the stars. Everyone else had retired—even La Loba mumbled softly from her lean-to—but he couldn't join them. He'd found a suitable piece of ground and stretched out, using his backpack as a pillow, and spent the last few hours inventing constellations among stars he had never seen.

His body hurt with the knowledge that Derek had run. From them. From him. Maybe just from being human.

He thought—

He sighed and hugged himself closer.

Maybe it didn't matter what he thought.

A sensation of being watched suddenly sparked goosebumps up his arms, and he flicked his gaze down from the stars to the darkness of his surroundings. Nothing seemed to move. All he heard was his own breathing.

But then a shadow morphed, coming closer, and blotted out part of the sky. It drew along his side and lowered its great bulk with a massive sigh. Stiles started to sit up but stopped when Derek lifted his wolfy head to look at him. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

"I didn't know if you were coming back," Stiles admitted as he lay back down, conscious of his body, of his skin.

Derek flashed his blue eyes at him and huffed as he settled his chin between his front paws.

The wolf's fur tickled against Stiles's arm, and his pulse beat with the sudden, reckless urge to bury his hands in it.

_He's not a dog, he's not a dog, he's not a dog._

He buried one. Started with just some light scratching on Derek's side, where his ribs rose and fell. It was a trance of sorts, drawing his fingers through his fur, enjoying the play between rough outer coat and soft near the belly.

He must have done something right. Derek rolled onto his side, and Stiles grunted as he shoved a huge paw into his cheek.

"Jesus, seriously?"

Derek smacked his cheek with a paw again and rolled to expose his belly more.

Stiles snorted softly. "Subtle." And began to rub big, lazy circles around the wolf's chest and stomach. His long fingers found their way down to the haunches, and he stopped as his brain mapped the touch to a human body. Derek's paws twitched, but he made no effort to close himself off. With a small smile, Stiles resumed the gentle scratches.

"I'm glad you came back," he said, whispering so as not to wake the others. "Really glad."

Derek grumbled, flashing his eyes, and pressed his paws against Stiles's side. It made him laugh, releasing tension he hadn't known he'd been holding. For the first time that night, Stiles yawned.

A gust of wind blew down into the gully, fanning the sparks in the dying fire and making him shiver. He pulled one hand into his sleeve and kept the other buried in Derek's fur.

"Who'd've thought the desert would be this cold?"

Derek lifted his head to look at him, then started jostling around. He settled when he had his back pressed along Stiles's whole side, tail swishing over his ankles.

It took a second for him to realize that Derek was trying to keep him warm, and his heart did a little flip-flop at the gesture. He turned his face into the ruff of Derek's neck and let himself drift off to sleep.

Stiles woke at the cracking of dawn and for a few seconds lay under the blanket, blinking at the bluest sky. Then he frowned and glanced down at the woven wool blanket he definitely hadn't fallen asleep under. That was weird. He sat up on his elbows and looked around. Scott and Lydia lay near the cold fire where they had fallen asleep, also under some striped wool blankets.

La Loba's lean-to was gone.

Stiles turned and found Derek asleep next to him, human again. And very very naked, which wasn't as awkward as he would have guessed. Instead he found himself concerned that Derek was sleeping on bare dirt and small stones. After a few seconds of his scrutiny, Derek stirred and slowly blinked awake.

Stiles grinned. Derek stretched and grinned back.

"Hey," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"Hey." Stiles inclined his head toward the gully wall. "She's gone."

Derek lifted himself enough to turn to see, but settled back down when the blanket started to slip, exposing his shoulders and chest to the cool morning air. He glanced down at himself and froze for a moment before turning slightly pink and pulling the blanket a little bit higher than it had been. He looked up at Stiles for a reaction, and their eyes met.

It had come like the onset of rain. A slow and steady gathering of forces that set his heart to racing, his mind to wander. Somewhere, like and care had formed their own gravity, and this, this sensation of affection swelled with indescribable emotion must be what people mean with the word love. Only there are no words for a revelation of such magnitude. _Words _would make it small, contained. Words would give boundaries to a comet, and he would have no such violence.

Stiles looked at him a long time, long enough that his heart started to flutter with fear. That he felt unmasked.

There is a tender wound inside everyone that has no name and is unutterable in its mystery. It is that which yearns for connection. Burns with secret passions. And knows with conviction that it cannot be loved. We protect it because it is flawed. It has only its flaws to offer.

This self, his essential self, the curious, annoying, defiant, unsure, loyal, worthless self stood naked. And in Derek's gaze of star dust and silent wonder, found its like. An aching soul, unique in quality, artful and strong, raw, uncertain, and fierce but so, so brave. With only its flaws to offer.

Derek ducked his head, shaken, breaking the contact. Then glanced up with a cautious, small smile.

Stiles swallowed, speechless with emotion, winded, and laid back down pulling the blanket up to his chin. It was early; they could sleep a little longer. Slowly, he reached across the thin, heated space between their bodies, searching. His knuckles grazed the back of Derek's hand, then he entwined their fingers, every moment anticipating him pulling away.

Impossibly, Derek sighed and squeezed his hand in reply.


	12. Chapter 12

Bright sunlight roused Derek the second time. Scott and Lydia were already up and wiping the sleep from their eyes. Scott gave him a long look whose meaning escaped him and started crushing the empty bottles in his backpack to make room for the blanket.

Derek still had Stiles's hand clasped in his, and he let himself have that for just a moment longer. Another breath or two. Dry desert air swept cleansing and deep into his lungs, making his limbs light. La Loba's work, he thought. Sweeping away the cobwebs in his mind, the aches from his muscles. He hadn't gotten a chance to thank her.

He released Stiles's hand and nudged his side to wake him.

Stiles groaned and stretched and blinked over at him sleepily. "What?"

"Time to go," Derek replied.

Stiles sat up, his neck crackling, and yawned. "Yeah, okay." And tossed the blanket off himself unceremoniously as he turned away.

Derek rolled his eyes. "Stiles," he hissed. The young man turned back. "I need my clothes."

A smirk passed over Stiles's lips, but he retrieved the neatly folded pile anyway.

Derek could feel his eyes on him as he started to pull the covers off and glanced up expectantly. After a second of blatant staring, Stiles ducked, embarrassed, and turned his back. Twice while he got dressed, Derek caught him looking, and his emotions warred with themselves.

They made space in Stiles's backpack for their blanket the same way as Scott, only Stiles kept finding ways to brush against him, the back of his hand, his hip, a touch to his shoulder blade. It spun his insides in a way that made his chest feel full, brimming, but vulnerable, too. Wariness fought with his pleased joy.

The look that had passed between them fluttered warm in his heart, and he caught himself wanting to smile remembering the way affection had bloomed suddenly on Stiles's face.

Stiles kneeled on his backpack to get the zipper shut, and then they joined Scott around the ashes of the campfire. Scott lifted a brown leather bladder and undid the cap. He sniffed and grinned.

"She left us water."

They each had a skin to carry.

Scott led the trek back from La Loba's camp, following their own scent trail through the monotonous landscape. And again, Derek and Stiles trod next to one another at the back of the line. Miles passed in silence, though Derek could hear Stiles's brain working with every step.

It was a relief when he decided to speak.

"Do you think you can do it any time?"

Derek looked over at him, frowning. _It? _"Do what?"

"You know"—Stiles gestured—"be a wolf, with the fur."

It was the only thing he'd thought about for the last few miles. "I think so. I think it's just . . . a matter of remembering what it feels like to shift more."

Stiles nodded, drawing closer to dodge an ocotillo plant. "You should try it," he said, smiling a mischievous smile.

Derek gave him a doubtful look. "What? Now?"

"Sure, why not now. See if you can."

"I don't—"

"Derek, come on. This is amazing! You have a new superpower! You gotta try it."

Stiles's enthusiasm stirred his own. It _had _been amazing. Breathtaking. Only the women in their family had ever had the full-shift, and he'd spent so many nights as a teenager longing to know.

He stopped, glancing up at Scott, and then shoved his water skin in Stiles's hands. "Fine, but you have to carry my things."

Stiles nodded eagerly and watched him with bubbling glee.

He'd never thought of the shift as being a show for someone else, a spectacle in which he could take pride. But the awestruck wonder in Stiles's eyes as he willed the transformations further made his heart swell. It swept like fire over him, a flash of pain quickly gone, trailed by pins and needles.

And suddenly the world changed. Not just his perspective, his _perception_. He shook the shirt off his back and stepped out of the clothes for Stiles to gather. There could be no greater metaphor than that—leaving the human world behind.

What had been a world of sight became a world of scent. He could see, keenly, but the focus, the primary, was scent.

"You look beautiful," Stiles said, keeping his voice down.

Derek craned his head to look at him and huffed.

Stiles flushed and faltered. "I mean, you're hot usually, but this . . . this is something else. I wish you could see yourself."

Derek eyed him and let some power shine in his irises to show that he'd heard, understood.

And then he turned his face toward the desert and let it swallow him whole.

Everything felt different, moved differently. He let his legs fly and carry him in swift slaloms, through clouds of scents like colors in the air. He breathed mesquite and grass and dirt. The passage of time painted itself in overlapping bands of scents new and dissipating.

Movement at the corner of his vision marked a hare, and he took off after it at full speed. Paws pounding the clay, limbs stretched, chest heaving. He ran for the joy, for the pleasure of muscles well-used in a body without the memory of scars. Everything pulsed with the living moment. While his thoughts and recollections were still his own, _NOW _commanded his full attention.

He got lost.

And maybe a little found, too.

The sun moved, and he panted from the exertion of another chase. The sound of human voices pulled his higher brain, and he flicked his ears to locate them. A laugh. _Stiles_. He took off running.

Derek panted as he slowed and drew alongside Stiles's leg.

"Glad to see someone's having fun," Stiles groused.

Derek bumped into his leg on purpose. Two could play the glancing touches game, only it didn't feel so precarious with paws and fur.

Stiles grinned down at him. "You seem less anxious than before. I mean, as a person you seemed less anxious this morning." He shrugged. "I don't know if you feel any different from what she did, but it seems like you do. I-I hope you do." He shrugged again, an apology for inelegant words.

Derek nosed at his hand and licked his palm. It's simple, the communication beyond speech.

As is the way of the world, the trip back took half the time of the trip out. Lydia laid her head against the window and pet the car door before getting in. Scott preened about the fact that no one had, in fact, stolen it.

Stiles left Derek's clothes behind the Jeep so he could shift back and change in private. Another small kindness that left Derek feeling warm and a little lost, though Stiles seemed oblivious and too distracted to notice the expression on his face as Derek joined them in the car.

"It's not far," Scott was saying. "We can call from Juarez."

Lydia shook her head. "But we're supposed to give him five hours. And if we call now, five hours isn't even sunset."

"So?"

"So . . . no one sneaks across international borders in daylight."

Derek watched the three of them crowded around Lydia's laptop. "We're sneaking across international borders?"

Stiles looked over his shoulder at him. "Yeah, your lack of a passport didn't really give us many options. But . . . we found a guy. Diego."

_Found a guy? They hired a smuggler? _Derek narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Do any of you even have that kind of money?"

The three of them shifted around uncomfortably, and Stiles averted his eyes. "You should really thank Chris when we get back," he said.

And yet the three of them suddenly radiated sorrow that spoke of a deeper story. Confused, worried, Derek sat back and let them continue discussing their logistics.

They decided . . . something. He wasn't paying attention. And only turned to speak closely into Stiles's ear once they were underway.

"Does Chris know? About Kate?" he asked.

Stiles shook his head and picked over his words. "We thought it'd be easier if . . . if things ended like they did." He wouldn't meet Derek's eyes. "He thinks Araya's hunters took you. We figured that was close enough."

Derek drew a deep breath and let it out slow. That was a hell of a secret to keep. He had a body of secrets, but that was an unexpected bone to add to the pile.

He sat back and lost track of time as they drove into Juarez for a break before aiming themselves west.

There was little to do after arriving at Diego's coordinates but wait. They parked the Jeep broadside against the sun and sat in the shade of its shadow. Scott and Lydia napped, stretched on their newly acquired blankets. Derek and Stiles sat propped against one of the tires. Their bent legs touched one another, and Stiles cupped his hands over his knees.

Derek watched him drum his fingers against his leg, tapping out some tune in his head. He couldn't recall when he first noticed Stiles's hands—really noticed. They looked strong, capable, but elegant, too. Like the work of an artist. He reached out and took Stiles's right hand in his own, turning it over for closer study. Stiles let him, quiet and curious.

He traced a finger along the lines of his palm and tried to recall which stood for life, for love, for fate. It was the barest of touches, the lightest he could manage without breaking contact. Stiles flexed his fingers as Derek drew a line up each one. His heartbeat jumped.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asked, breathless.

Derek traced to the most sensitive part of a fingertip and drew a swirl. Stiles exhaled and swallowed.

"I like your hands," he said, and added a few more fingers to caress the dips and swells. "I think . . . they're what kept me sane."

Stiles slipped his hand out from under Derek's grasp and adjusted to face him. His heart was going so fast, and for once Derek wished that he could be given away as easily. He waited on pins as Stiles reached out to touch his face and let his eyes fall shut at the gossamer stroke, sighing. The heat from his fingertips hovered near the corner of Derek's mouth, and he opened his eyes again, questioning.

Stiles met his gaze, then glanced down, following the path of his fingertips over Derek's lips, so close to touching.

"I want to kiss you right now," Stiles admitted. "Can I do that?"

Uneasiness gathered in Derek's stomach, a roiling sort of heat.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

Disappointment clouded into Stiles's expression, and he touched Derek's lower lip with one finger, a light tap, before starting to sit back.

A swirl of anger, resentment, and loss hit Derek hard in the chest. He wanted a kiss like air and hated the uneasiness Kate had placed in his body.

"Okay," he said quickly, with a shaky voice, making Stiles pause. "But you might have to stop."

Joy burst briefly into Stiles's expression, then faded into something serious. "I will. If you tell me." He waited, hand poised in the small space between them, until Derek nodded.

His body tensed of its own accord as Stiles moved into his space. He didn't know what to expect.

It wasn't this.

Stiles touched lightly on the spot just above his nose and painted a line of featherlight heat up to his hair before brushing across, tickling and hot. Derek gasped as the caress drew along his face and Stiles swiped his thumb through the soft hairs of his beard.

It was delicate, reverent, and so tender a thing Derek forgot to breathe. Stiles let his long fingers rest against his neck and kept brushing his thumb across Derek's cheek, soothing, moving. He shut his eyes in anticipation.

Stiles dipped in slowly, pressing soft, wet lips to Derek's own, making him shiver.

He learned that Stiles kisses with his whole being. And that it is a thing of terrifying beauty to be the center of that singular attention. The movement was soft, undemanding. Derek felt his whole body rush with sparkling energy.

Stiles placed another kiss on his upper lip. One more near the corner of his mouth. And then stopped, panting, and pressed their foreheads together.

"Was, was that okay?"

Words would not form on his tongue. No one had _ever,_ with such care. He tried to speak but only managed a shuddering exhale. His face felt hot, and when he opened his eyes, he had to blink away a bit of blur.

Stiles sucked a horrified breath. "No, oh . . . God, what'd I do?"

And suddenly he was straddling Derek's thighs, touching his face with both hands like he needed to piece him back together, or keep him from falling apart. It took a second for Derek to realize what was going on—that Stiles had read the swell of emotion all wrong. He grasped the hands butterflying across his face and held them.

"It's all right, it's okay," he said. Derek's heart weighed heavy with affection and gratitude. "I-I don't think I've ever been kissed like that. That's all. It's okay."

Stiles stared at him unsure. "It was okay? Really?"

Derek laughed and nodded, not quite trusting words. He let one of Stiles's hands go and took the other in both of his to place a kiss over the thin bones on the back of it. He rested there to give himself a moment. To think.

They both took calming breaths, and Stiles swung himself back so he was sitting at Derek's side. After a second's contemplation, Derek interlaced their fingers and leaned back against the tire to gaze out at the desert. He could feel Stiles buzzing but wasn't sure the source. Confession welled in him.

When he found his voice, it was gravelly and quiet, a match for the playa they sat on. "It was something she made me do. In the truck. Kiss her. I was afraid that—I thought I might think it was her."

Stiles moved his fingers in Derek's grasp. "Did you?"

"No." He grinned a little. "Nothing like her."

"Okay . . . but if I do something. I mean, you can tell me. You _have_ to tell me. Cause I think I'm gonna want to kiss you, like, a lot. And I don't think it's all gonna be so . . ."

Derek smirked and glanced over at him. "A lot, huh?"

Stiles looked nervous and unsure. Anxiety leached out of him. "Well, yeah. I mean. I wanna be a thing if . . . if you wanna be a thing."

Derek's heart beat wildly, and _yes_ sat so selfishly close to his tongue he could taste it. "Stiles . . . even after what La Loba did . . . I'm still . . . not right. You could do a lot better. A lot less—"

"I told you what I want."

Derek fell silent, running his thumb back and forth across Stiles's wrist. "I don't know if I can be that way with someone." His chest constricted to admit it.

"Are you still going to go to therapy?"

Derek nodded.

"Then I told you what I want."

He didn't know what to say. Maybe someone who kept saving him was a pretty good bet for saving him again.

Stiles gripped his fingers tighter. "Hello? Derek, are we going out or not? I kinda have to know. Earth to Derek Hale."

He had a sudden vision of being hounded into it one way or another by unrelenting snark and arresting amber eyes. "Yes. Okay? Yes . . ."

Stiles beamed at him with a dopey expression and squeezed on his hand. Derek rolled his eyes and went back to watching the horizon.

At dusk, Scott climbed on top of the Jeep to get a better look. After a few minutes of arching and searching, he sat on the edge and bounced the heel of his sneaker against the window. Stiles shifted his attention from the game he and Derek were playing on his phone to watch him.

Scott had that look. Like when he failed a test or they lost a patient at work. God, he still remembered the first time _that _happened. He'd tried everything, video games, ice cream, cake, soda, egging Coach's car, a Marvel marathon. The only time Scott had laughed was when Stiles'd put on half his Halloween costume (it was June) and dragged him to the mall so he could make spectacle.

With a touch on the shoulder, Stiles handed Derek his phone so he could work on the Sudoku and stood up, Scott's foot bouncing very near his face.

"Break it, you bought it," he said.

Scott gave him a sarcastic look but stopped impact-testing the glass.

He didn't say anything.

Stiles nudged his leg, and Scott let out a dramatic sigh. Whatever it was simmered just beneath the surface, and he could see Scott working to set it free. When the words came, they were hushed and heavy.

"I asked her about it, you know."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Asked who what?"

"La Loba. After Derek ran and you went to be by yourself. I asked her if she could have done it. With Allison."

Cold flooded Stiles's blood, and he heard the scrape of Derek's jeans on the dirt as he rearranged himself.

"And?" Stiles asked, the word fragile.

Scott played with his hands in his lap, weariness and loss pulling at his features. "She said she could turn wolves into people, but not people into wolves." His voice grew strained and thin. "There's nothing she could do."

It got difficult to breathe as outrage gripped him, twisting. Nothing. Derek had suffered for _nothing_—on a whimsy fever dream of a psycho. But—but this was about Scott, right now, he reminded himself. He could punch some walls later if he had to.

Stiles carefully set his hand on Scott's knee and tried to remember that for a day Scott had carried the hope of bringing the girl he'd loved back to life. Having that torn away . . . that had to be a lot like losing her again.

Scott sniffed and finally looked at him. "How come everyone else gets to come back? Everyone but her?"

He didn't know. God. How was he supposed to know?

"Because she's one of the good guys, Scotty. It's all the bad ones keep coming back."

Scott nodded at him like that made some sense of irrational things, and Stiles patted his knee a few more times, willing neither of them to cry. They'd spent so much time crying.

Burdened, he sat back down next to Derek and found him motionless, staring at a black screen and thinking things he didn't want to imagine. Stiles eased the phone from his hand and rubbed small circles into the nape of his neck until he started breathe like the air of the earth belonged to him, too.

Diego showed up after sunset, rolling in across the playa like a ghost ship—dark and silent. The brakes squelched as he brought his truck to a stop and flicked on his low beams, and they all stood to meet him as he got out, shielding their eyes.

Stiles moved in front of Derek, protectively and without a word. Diego might have been retired, but Chris Argent was for a time, too. Sometimes those things didn't last. The man was a silhouette against the bright lights, and Stiles gave all his focus to watching the movement of his hands.

Lacapa took a few steps toward them, scuffing up dust. "You have the rest of my money?" he asked.

Lydia went forward to meet him, pulling the bills from her purse. "Four thousand, as agreed."

He took it and started counting, then glanced up at Stiles. "Guess you found that someone you cared about."

The tension in his shoulders eased, and Stiles smiled a little. "Yeah, mission accomplished."

Diego grunted and flipped some more bills. "Do I need to worry? 'Bout anyone comin' by with questions?"

Scott shifted his balance. "No. There won't be anyone."

Lacapa paused and gave him a long look before nodding and finishing his count. He shoved the money into one pocket and fished something from the breast pocket of his shirt. He held it in one hand, and then he started turning, orienting himself, and eventually lifted his arm to point northwest, toward a mountain range they could no longer see.

"Sierra Boca Grande," he said. "We will be driving through a mountain pass that the border guards don't know about. Without headlights. And when we come out the other side, we'll be in New Mexico. Then we're gonna drive for 50 miles or so avoiding every road possible. When you see me turn my headlights on, you're gonna follow me onto Route 9. And after that, you go where you like." He turned to look at them, still just a shape in the light. "I suggest you let one of the wolves drive, since they can see by starlight."

Derek took a sharp breath and moved so close Stiles could feel his heat. He breathed a gust against Stiles's neck, and Stiles could picture the expression on his face.

"Retired hunter," he whispered back.

Derek let out a low growl, and Scott turned to give them a WTF is wrong with you gesture.

Stiles gestured why-do-you-blame-me-for-everything right back and turned to Diego. "What do you say we get the hell out of here? Because I am _so_ ready for grass. And trees."

Scott, as advised, drove, and they made the mountains in good time. Diego's path brought them into rough terrain, pushing the Jeep's ability as an off-road vehicle. The tires slipped on loose rock, and Scott had to learn to ease them over high, sharp breaks. As they squeezed between a tree and a solid rock wall, the whole chassis at a steep angle, the Jeep suddenly dropped and something clanged and scraped loudly.

"Oh my God, what was that?" Stiles threw himself toward the door, across Derek's lap, to try to see. "Scott, stop."

"I'm not stopping."

"What _was_ that?" Stiles crooned, and dropped back into his seat. "Oh my God, what did you _do_? My car, Scott, Jesus!" Unable to sit still, he clambered over Derek a second time and raked a hand through his hair. "I can't see it. I can't see. Scott!"

"Stiles!" Derek said, pushing him off. "Stop. Whatever it is, I'll fix it."

Stiles tore his agitated gaze from the side of the car long enough to scoff. "Fix it? What, you're a mechanic now?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "I'll _pay_ someone to fix it."

There was a silence that Derek couldn't interpret beyond knowing that he had not just had the final word.

Then, "Oh my God, are you my sugar daddy?"

_Oh, for_—

Derek sighed and turned his attention toward Scott. "Are we there yet?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles's gleeful smile drop. After a moment, he faced forward again, silent. And Derek felt his insides sink.

Maybe . . . maybe this wasn't them anymore. He'd never paid attention to what Stiles might find insulting, and it shocked his system to realize that their rules may have altered without his knowing. Cold, uncertain panic sent his heart racing, and he reached out to touch Stiles's hand. To try to fix it.

"Hmm?" Stiles turned to him, as though awoken from deep thought.

Not angry then.

Derek released a held breath.

"Derek?"

"Nothing. I was—I was just checking." He shook his head, dispelling the worry, and braced himself against the roof as Scott told them to hold on.

Stiles gave him a small, mercurial smile, and then crowed at the sound of something else breaking.


	13. Chapter 13

"So," Stiles said, looking up from his laptop as Derek neared the couch, "how was Dr. Weir?"

Derek watched his lips form the words, then settle into a perfect cupid's bow. Lips he had kissed good night. Lips he had traced with gentle fingers.

He slid onto the couch on his knees and leaned in to press a kiss to Stiles's shoulder. "Therapeutic."

Stiles smirked, watching him, amused. He closed his laptop and moved into the corner of the couch, drawing Derek along with him. They settled together, Derek reclining back against Stiles's chest.

He was always careful when he laid his weight. Even with Stiles urging him closer, coaxing him to relax. He claimed he felt solid, real. There was something in that Derek could appreciate.

Stiles wrapped strong arms across his midsection and nuzzled into his hair.

Derek smiled as soft lips pressed a kiss to his temple. Safe touches.

Stiles had catalogued every safe touch to be deployed at his leisure. Made a study of it.

"Good session, then?" Stiles asked, resting his head on Derek's shoulder.

Derek hummed, unwinding into the warmth of him.

Stiles made a pleased sound that carried into a smile in his voice. "Did you ask her?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She said you could come next time. If you want." He reached up and threaded his fingers into Stiles's hair, tugging lightly.

Stiles chuckled in his ear. "If _I_ want? Dude, I think about sex with you like a thousand times a day. I want. Believe me. No lack of wanting." He squeezed on Derek's ribs.

Guilt danced lightly around his insides. Even though they'd talked about it. Gone to tears about it more than once, more often than not because he couldn't comprehend how a teenage boy could be okay with waiting.

Derek turned and dragged Stiles into a kiss. An apology, a confirmation. He wanted those pink lips everywhere. Wet. Tantalizing. He moaned as he dragged the lower lip between his teeth and felt Stiles's breath shudder out. He wanted it to be okay. To be a lover with scars instead of wounds.

"I'm sor—"

Stiles kissed him hard and stroked his cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Shut up. Tell her next week."

Derek huffed a heavy breath and pressed their foreheads together. "Okay."

"Okay."

Stiles released the hold around his middle and gave him a solid smack on the stomach.

"Now, help me with my German. I need to ace this thing."

He let out an amused breath.

"Ja, Liebling."


End file.
